


Advent

by illwick



Series: Unwind [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Breathplay, Comeplay, Difficult sex, Dom!John, Domestic violence (past), Dry Humping, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Japanese Rope Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Unsafe Sex (past), Vibrators, Violent Sex, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-09 16:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12892410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: The holidays are a time for reflection.Also, sex.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy December, all! Here’s a little Christmas-y angst-fest to get you through the holidays.
> 
> Please do heed the tags: Though the references to addiction & abuse are in the past, these are a reoccurring theme in this installment.
> 
> There are a lot of characters and events from past installments of both my “In Between” and “Unwind” series in this one. As a result, I’m making a little cheat-sheet index below for easy reference. I’m also tagging “D/S Dynamics,” although they’re not present in every chapter - they are always an underlying theme in this series.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> LYTTELTON FAMILY - An aristocratic household from which the Holmes siblings are descended on their mother’s side. Since their mother was the youngest of her siblings (and also female) and their father was a “commoner”, Mycroft and Sherlock have no real claim to the family seat (resulting in the perpetual chip on Mycroft’s shoulder).
> 
> VICTOR TREVOR - (From “Unwind” Part 11): Back in 2005, Mycroft bribed Victor into starting a relationship with Sherlock to keep an eye on him following his release from his fourth round of rehab. Victor developed sincere feelings for Sherlock after they became acquainted, but Sherlock’s discovery of Mycroft’s involvement resulted in their breakup, and yet another relapse for Sherlock. Victor is a pureblood aristocrat, descended from the Farringtons on his mother’s side, and the Trevors on his father’s. His family is extremely politically well-connected.
> 
> ALICE - (From “In Between” Part 2 and “Unwind” Part 12): Sherlock’s first and only friend in secondary school. She was a free-spirited artist, and she died of a drug overdose at the age of 18, sending Sherlock into his first severe spiral of addiction.
> 
> SEBASTIAN ‘SEB’ WILKES - (Canonically from “The Blind Banker,” in this ‘verse, from “In Between” Part 7 and “Unwind” Part 6): Sherlock’s first sexual partner. They met at Uni at the age of 19. Their relationship was entirely one-sided: Seb was (and remains) completely closeted, and never admitted to his involvement with Sherlock. Sherlock broke it off with him after overhearing Seb mocking Sherlock to his friends.
> 
> HUGO - (From “Unwind” Part 9): One of Mycroft’s old friends from Uni that Sherlock dated briefly in 1997. Hugo introduced Sherlock to an exclusive underground gentlemen’s club, where Sherlock experimented with cross-dressing for the first time. Hugo was closeted, and eventually became engaged to a woman, ending his association with Sherlock.

A perturbed frown tugs at the corners of Mycroft Holmes’ lips as he stares down intently at the spreadsheet before him. It was a complex puzzle, that much was certain, but like all puzzles, there was undoubtedly a solution that would reveal itself in due time; distinct, streamlined, elegant in its simplicity-- he need only let it come to him.

He takes a sip of tea, rubs his eyes, and refocuses his gaze, willing himself to remain engaged.

The Farringtons couldn’t _possibly_ be seated at the same table as the Lowsons; not after that _ghastly_ row the eldests sons had engaged in during the last session of Parliament before the Christmas recess. It had been quite the spectacle; even _he’d_ been informed of it, and normally he’d never be bothered with something as mundane as the goings-on in the House of Lords. The Farringtons outnumbered the Lowsons by three; therefore, the Lowsons must be the ones to move.

He highlights their icons and deletes them.

Four vacant spaces at the Farrington table, then. 

It would be a nightmare to move a family of four; the entire arrangement was like a house of cards, and such a monumental upset would undoubtedly send the entire thing tumbling to the ground. 

Two parties of two, then. From the same table, preferably, to keep the Lowsons united.

Obvious.

His eyes scan the screen beseechingly.

A tangled web of forged alliances and strained civilities reveals itself, generations of drama hundreds of years in the making, all playing out here and now, in the seating chart for the annual Lyttelton Christmas Eve gala.

It should be hateful.

If it weren’t all so _delicious._

He’d be lying if he claimed it didn’t bring him joy, to have them all at his fingertips, pawns to move about in a game entirely of his making--on a much smaller scale than the usual games he was accustomed to playing with them, of course. The seating chart at the gala was always the _piece de resistance_ of his superintendence, his final display of total power and utter control, reminding all of his cherished minions _exactly_ where they stood.

Not only that, but it made Mummy so very _happy_ that he agreed to do the seating chart for her every year. One less thing for her and her _useless hack_ of an older brother to argue about, he assured himself.

The power trip was just an added bonus.

With a sigh, he scans the sprawling series of boxes on his spreadsheet, each with a family name associated. 

His eyes come to rest on one set from Table 7: the Pelhams. _Ah, yes. Good, quite good, actually._ Nathaniel Pelham had been _more_ than accommodating when Mycroft had _strongly_ suggested that he reconsider the terms of the Korean sanctions bill he was attempting to push through Parliament; there was simply no reason why he and that simpering waif of a wife of his deserved to be at a table so far down. They’d suit the Farringtons quite nicely. Grinning smugly to himself, Mycroft gives the two of them the promotion they so readily deserved.

But who else? There were still two empty seats at the Farrington table, and they ought to come from Table 7 as well, so that the currently-displaced Lowsons wouldn’t be separated. 

His eyes narrow at the chart.

No.

Impossible.

There was no way--

It was an oversight, surely. Because there is absolutely no chance in hell that one _W.S.S. Holmes_ and one _J.H.Watson (Dr)_ were planning to attend the _Lyttelton Christmas Eve gala._

He reaches for the festively-carved teakwood box containing the RSVP cards, all categorized alphabetically. He thumbs through the H’s--no response card under _Holmes,_ that much was certain. 

He flips to the W’s.

And there, on the creamy embossed stationery, plain as day, is the impossible.

 _Mr. W. S. S. Holmes_  
_Accepts with pleasure  
_Declines with regret 

Next to _Accepts with pleasure_ is a bloody SMILEY FACE, hastily drawn in blue ballpoint pen.

Tasteless.

Mycroft flips the card over to review the details, printed in the same familiar scrawling hand.

_Adults attending (Names + Titles)_  
W.S.S. Holmes  
J.H. Watson / Dr 

_Children attending (Names + Ages)  
Rosamund Watson, 2_

Mycroft produces his mobile from his pocket and is about to automatically punch the number 2 on his speed-dial before he reconsiders; Sherlock would surely be of no help at getting to the bottom of this. He’d be standoffish and sarcastic and elusive as always, and Mycroft has a distinct suspicion that the idea to attend hadn’t even been Sherlock’s at all.

Best to go straight to the source of this nonsense, then.

“Mycroft Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“My dear Doctor Watson. So happy to have caught you, is now a bad time?”

“I’m at work, as I’m sure you’re well aware, but I’m between patients at the moment. What can I do for you this afternoon?”

“I’m not calling for a favour, as a matter of fact, but merely as a point of inquiry. I’m currently in the midst of the most tedious undertaking of arranging the seating chart for the Christmas Eve gala next week, and I couldn’t help but notice that both my brother and yourself indicated that you would be attending.”

“Yes.”

“That’s… well, surely you understand, that’s a bit… _Unexpected,_ is it not? Sherlock hasn’t attended the gala in nearly two decades.”

“And this year, we decided to attend.”

Mycroft doesn’t respond.

“We received an invitation addressed to the two of us, as well as a request to stay overnight at the estate, along with the other members of the immediate family. Was I incorrect in therefore assuming we were welcome?”

Mycroft purses his lips. “It’s not simply a matter of being _welcome,_ Doctor Watson. Lord Lyttelton is Sherlock’s uncle, so Sherlock is of _course_ welcome at this festive family gathering.”

There’s a long pause.

“...So you’re saying _I’m_ the problem, then? Look, Mycroft, if this is some homophobic bullshit, I’m--”

“Oh, _please,_ Doctor Watson, it’s nothing so pedestrian as that; this is a _society_ function, over the centuries we’ve seen far more scandalous things than two men attending a dinner together.”

“...Oh. So, then… what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, I need to understand _why._ Sherlock never attends family functions except under extreme duress; the last time we spent Christmas together was because he’d been shot and was too weak to put up much of a fight. And even then, he didn’t attend the _gala,_ he merely lounged about at the country house for an afternoon.”

“Uh, yes, I remember it well, thanks.”

“There’s no way he’d get it into his own head that he wanted to attend, so I can only assume this is your hand at work. And I need to know _why.”_

There’s another long pause, and Mycroft can hear the doctor sigh heavily on the other end of the line. He drums his fingers on the tabletop, intent on waiting him out.

“Look, Mycroft, I’m going to level with you here. And I don’t expect you to understand a word of what I’m saying, because it’s to do with _sentiment,_ which, as I understand, is not your family’s strong suit.” Mycroft suppresses an indignant huff, but manages to remain silent.

“Sherlock and I are raising Rosie together, and we have a good support network of friends, we really do. But we haven’t got much in the way of family. You and he are… the way you are, and my family is… well, not the point.” Mycroft mentally fills in the gaps from his initial background check on the doctor: He came from a long line of working-class alcoholics and domestic abusers on both sides of his family, and his relationship with all of them could be considered strained at best. As of Mycroft’s last check-in, John spoke cordially to his mother, avoided his father, and had severed contact with his cousins years ago. He spoke to his sister on occasion, but she was still on and off the wagon so intermittently that she wasn’t allowed around the child for fear she’d be a bad influence, which had negatively impacted their relationship even further.

John’s rambling now, his mouth moving faster than his brain, as evidenced by the slightly breathless tone in his voice. “So we haven’t got much in the way of immediate family, and it’s not like she’ll be getting a brother or sister…” _Not for lack of trying,_ Mycroft’s brain unhelpfully interjects (judging by the freshly-fucked look seemingly permanently plastered on Sherlock’s smug face these days, he and John seemed to do little else besides engage in frankly excessive amounts of coitus).

“The point is, we don’t want Rosie to grow up isolated. Sherlock mentioned that she has second-cousins on your mother’s side, along with some other, more distant relations her age, and we don’t want to deprive her of contact with them as a result of… well, as a result of everything else. So we’re coming to your uncle’s estate for the gala, and staying overnight, and… and that’s that.” There’s an air of finality in his voice that makes Mycroft chuckle to himself; he does love it when the good doctor gets all fiery and defiant; it’s adorable, really, rather like a puppy attacking a shoelace.

“Very well, then, Doctor Watson, all completely understandable. You do know that the gala is a formal affair, correct? I’d hate for you to feel… Out of place.”

“Yeah, Mycroft, it’s under control, I won’t embarrass you.”

“Splendid. By the way, I’m planning to seat you both at the table with the Farringtons; that’s Victor Trevor’s family, by the way. I’m assuming that won’t be a problem?”

When he responds, John’s tone is curt, and Mycroft notes with a thrill of delight that he’s finally getting under John’s skin. “Not at all, sounds like a blast, really. Victor and I are chums now, haven’t you heard?” Mycroft _had_ heard that Sherlock and John had worked a case for Victor, but from the reports his sources had provided, John had merely been _civil_ to Victor throughout, at best.

“Excellent. Looking forward to it, then.”

“Sure.” There’s a click, and then silence.

Smirking to himself, Mycroft turns back to the seating chart. 

Oh, this would be _delicious_ indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: There is a sexual encounter described in this chapter that takes place under the influence of drugs and alcohol. I’m not tagging this as non-con because both participants remain eager and willing throughout the encounter, but it results in risky behavior that would not be categorized as safe or sane. This issue is addressed at length.

Sherlock hazards a glance at John, who is sitting placidly in the passenger side of their rental car, gazing absently out the window at the snow-dusted fields rolling by. From the backseat, Rosie lets out a delicate snore. She’d nodded off before they even reached the city limits, and Sherlock mentally prays this doesn’t mean she’ll be up all night; though the Lyttelton family nanny would be overseeing the children during the gala, Sherlock hates the thought of Rosie being awake in the dark in an unfamiliar place, confused and calling out for them…

Was this what _empathy_ felt like? Strange. He’s not fond of the sensation. 

He shakes the feeling off and rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck the way he knows drives John mad. John merely glances briefly in his direction and then rolls his eyes, returning his gaze resolutely to the window.

The ride so far had been tense, at best. Before they even left Baker Street, they’d had a row about packing (John insisted Sherlock had overpacked, Sherlock accused John of underpacking, John had _somehow_ taken that to mean Sherlock felt he was _unfit_ to be at a society event, Sherlock had unsuccessfully tried to backpedal, John had been unreceptive to his remorse, so Sherlock had lashed back--reminding John that it had been his own idiotic idea to attend the bloody gala in the first place, and now look where it had gotten them). By the time they had the car loaded, the chill between them was more palpable than the frigid December air outside. John had attempted to diffuse the situation by turning on Christmas music, which had sent Sherlock into a 5-minute diatribe about the unusually high suicide rate that time of year, so John had wordlessly turned off the radio and lapsed into a stony silence which had lasted precisely 1 hour and 47 minutes, bringing them up to this very moment.

Sherlock sighs. This is _precisely_ why family functions were so hateful; the relentless potential for drama simmering beneath the surface put everyone on edge, and even John, with his unnaturally even temper and long fuse, was not immune. Why in God’s name he’d insisted they attend this bloody function was still beyond Sherlock entirely; something about _family_ and _sentiment_ and not wanting Rosie to grow up _alone_ (that part had perplexed Sherlock the most; had he been given the option of going through life without the enduring influence of his siblings, he’s fairly certain he’d have taken it in a heartbeat). Even so, John had badgered and cajoled and finally outright bribed Sherlock with a delightful myriad of sexual favours that he was too weak to resist, though in this particular moment, he can’t even recall what it was that John had offered up that made him think enduring the inevitable torture of the gala would be even _remotely_ worth it.

Sometimes he hates his cock. It appears to have developed a brain all its own, and Sherlock deeply resents it.

All that said, he’s dreading the gala with a particularly potent sense of foreboding that he’s found accompanies him to most large social gatherings. While over the past year or two he’s learned to become more tolerant of his own parents (the fact that they’d been an immeasurable help with Rosie had aided that transition considerably), the thought of being in the company of all of their _society_ friends made him feel apprehensive and unsettled. And he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.

True, he hadn’t been to a society event in ages; he’s fairly certain the last one he’d attended had been in the company of Victor Trevor, so that had been at least a decade ago. But he finds he’s not particularly concerned that too much time has passed; instead, he worries that perhaps not _enough_ time has passed for him to divorce the past and present the way he would like: A complete cauterization, with no potential for bleeding over. 

But he knows that’s rarely the case.

As efficient as his Mind Palace is, over the years, he’s come to terms with the fact that it is, most inconveniently, irreparably haunted.

The most common ghost, of course, is Alice. She drifts into and out of the shadows apropos of nothing, stirred to life by the most mundane of everyday occurrences: the smell of cinnamon tea, the sound of charcoal on paper, a particular way the sun glints through the leaves when it’s low in the sky. But Sherlock never minds her presence. She is warm and familiar, comforting and calm. He does not find her often, but when he does, he smiles.

But there are other, darker ghosts, too. The apparitions that dwell in Victor Trevor’s boarded-up stateroom. Moriarty’s corporeal form, rattling about the dungeons. 

But they are safe. They are contained.

It’s the others he’s worried about now. The spectres of Seb and Hugo and countless other men, more shapes and sensations than names and faces, lurking in the unfrequented corners of his mind, waiting to materialise the moment he lets his guard down. There are years of his life of which he is not proud, and being in the company of those who knew him during those times leaves him feeling profoundly unsettled.

The last time he’d been at the Lyttelton estate for the Christmas Eve gala, he’d been with Gabriel.

Christ. There’s a name he’d sworn to forget.

Yet the mind is a fickle thing.

Gabriel smelled of soil and freshly-mown grass and cannabis smoke. Sherlock had met him on a muggy August day at the Lyttelton estate when he was out stalking about the grounds, raging at being cooped up there for the remainder of the summer holidays. Following his rather dramatic relapse after some drama at school, his parents were keen to keep him removed from his network of dealers in the desperate hope that he’d avoid a second round of rehab, and had shipped him off to his uncle’s to endure the waning days of summer isolated at the estate, brooding and melancholy.

He’d decided to start a series of rather intricate experiments involving the root structure of various plants based on soil composition, and had been spending a majority of his time in the greenhouse as a result. But on that particular day, his best intentions were derailed by the unmistakable odor of pot smoke.

Intrigued, he wove his way through the foliage until he came across the source: a young man no older than himself, with jet black hair and olive skin, humming absentmindedly to himself as he unloaded a few bags of potting soil from a wheelbarrow between hits from a blunt clutched in his dirt-caked fingers.

“Hello.”

Sherlock hadn’t intended to startle him, but the man dropped the bag of potting soil before whipping around to face him, desperately making a pathetic attempt to hide the blunt behind his back.

“Euh, sorry, sir. I was…” His accent was thick and his words stilted; Portuguese, Sherlock deduced, so he switched his approach immediately. His Portuguese was rusty, but passable.

_“No worries. I was wondering if I could trouble you for a hit?”_ Christ, it had been _ages,_ and he wanted it so badly his blood seemed to boil with desire-- he’d been clean all summer, and while pot wasn’t his drug of choice, desperate times called for desperate measures.

A conspiratorial smile crept across the gardener’s face, and he produced the joint without hesitation. Sherlock grinned back and took care to make sure their fingers brushed as he accepted, before taking his first _blissful_ hit in months.

Moments later, everything felt still and peaceful and perfect. He and the gardener passed the joint back and forth in silence until it was gone, the gardener grinding it out on the edge of the wheelbarrow before pocketing the remains. He was cautious, then. Sherlock appreciated that.

_“I have to get back to work.”_ The gardener turned back towards the wheelbarrow and began to make his way towards the greenhouse doors.

_“Wait,”_ Sherlock ventured. The gardener paused. _“Will you be here tomorrow?”_

The gardener glanced back over his shoulder and gave Sherlock a dazzling smile. _“If you want me to be.”_

Why, yes. Sherlock wanted that very much.

They met every day in the greenhouse at half past one, an effortlessly unspoken arrangement. They’d post up in the far corner, hidden in a lush cavern of deciduous ferns, and smoke a joint and talk.

Their conversations were stilted at first; it was five days before they even got around to exchanging names.

It was three days after that before they kissed.

Sherlock had learned to be cautious. Despite the fact that his deductive capabilities made it glaringly obvious when someone was checking him out, he’d quickly discovered that he seemed to be some sort of uncommon exception for many men; he’d notice their appreciative glances, he’d make a move, and then quickly be sucker punched and called a colourful variety of homophobic slurs and left dizzy, disorientated, and befuddled on the floor. Apparently something about him appealed to straight men, too, and he’d learned that was a risk, not an asset, when it came to trolling for sexual partners.

Not that he had sexual partners often. For the most part, he wasn’t particularly interested; he could take care of his transport on his own, and he knew that most people found his demeanor off-putting and abrasive, so it was easier to go without. With the brief exception of a few regular hookups at Uni, he resigned himself primarily to the occasional one-night stand, always under the influence of drugs or alcohol, and never going further than a hand job or an occasional blow job, if he was feeling particularly generous. Sex was merely an inconvenience with which to be dealt.

But with Gabriel, it was different. The day after their first kiss found Sherlock on his knees, breathing in Gabriel’s earthy scent as he fellated his gorgeous cock with voracious enthusiasm, slightly light-headed and dry-mouthed from the weed, but achingly hard and shaking with want. As soon as Gabriel finished, he pulled Sherlock to his feet and kissed him until the room spun, then pushed him back against the steamy glass of the greenhouse windows and sank to his knees to return the favour.

Sherlock wasn’t used to having his affections returned. Most of the boys at school pushed him away as soon as they’d finished, so he’d bring himself off with his hand afterwards, which he’d determined was fine.

But this was so much more than _fine._ Gabriel’s lips and tongue were exquisite and felt like magic as they worked him over, and by the time he was hissing out a warning and clutching desperately at Gabriel’s thick locks, he was fairly certain he was about to combust with the consuming heat of it.

It became a routine. And Sherlock was not normally one for routines; they were tedious, boring, and unproductive. But within days, he developed a near-Pavlovian response to humidity and the rich scent of soil, half-hard as he worked on his experiments until he heard the telltale sign of the greenhouse door swinging open, signifying Gabriel’s arrival.

And strangely, it wasn’t just sex. After they got each other off, they’d sit and talk and smoke and laugh. Gabriel wasn’t exceptionally brilliant (at least, not by Sherlock’s standards), but he was joyful and funny (if not particularly witty), and he had a knack for reciting offensively romantic poetry (which Sherlock pretended to hate, but as he lay with his head in Gabriel’s lap with Gabriel holding the joint to his lips, he couldn’t help but let his eyes flutter shut with bliss, under the spell of Gabriel’s amorous platitudes).

But summer ended, and Sherlock was unceremoniously thrust back into the reality of his life at Uni. Following his disaster of a breakup with Seb the previous spring (if it could even be called a break-up, considering that they’d never established their relationship to begin with), Sherlock was more isolated and ostracised than ever. He tried to stay clean, tried to devote himself to his studies, but before too long, his nasty little habit was back, and along with it, his poor decision-making and dismal work ethic. He tried his best to keep it from his parents, but Mycroft undoubtedly knew, and Sherlock could tell by the ever-increasing frequency of his casual drop-ins that he was monitoring the situation closely. Sherlock was treading on thin ice.

But there were bright spots in the darkness. For one, Gabriel wrote. The first time one of his letters arrived, Sherlock was caught entirely off-guard; he’d been certain that after he left the estate, he’d never hear from him again. But one day an envelope showed up at his dormitory, containing a lengthy letter in an unfamiliar hand, written in a language that now conjured up memories of heat and cannabis and sunshine and pure, uncomplicated bliss.

Sherlock wrote back, in his clumsy Portuguese prose. He didn’t say much of anything, but it seemed he didn’t have to; two weeks later, another letter arrived, full of self-deprecating quips and humorous anecdotes about life at the estate. So Sherlock wrote back again.

When December rolled around, Sherlock found himself feeling strangely self-conscious as he scrawled out a question.

_Will you be around at Christmas? My family will be at the estate from the 21st through Boxing Day._

He hesitated, his pen shaking slightly over the paper. He reached absent-mindedly into his desk drawer for his stash, and took a small, fortifying hit.

_I’d like to see you._

Days later, an envelope arrived.

_Name the time and place._

He’d need to be careful about this. He knew Gabriel lived in a cottage close to the village, but there was little chance he’d be able to make it there without a vehicle--especially without Mycroft noticing. Instead, he conjured an alternate plan.

_Come to the house the night of the 22nd. There’s some big dinner a few towns over that everyone’s attending. I’ll skive off._

It had been almost laughably easy to avoid going to the dinner; Mycroft was still in London for work (“Unavoidable, I’m afraid, my deepest regrets…” _as if anyone wanted to see his smug pig face anyway),_ so Sherlock simply told his parents he’d been feeling a bit under the weather and would prefer to avoid going out in the cold. His mother had given him a single appraising glance, but he’d remained firm under her scrutiny; he was fairly certain that, if anything, she more strongly suspected that he’d be staying behind to get high, not to have a clandestine tryst with the groundskeeper. He held her gaze with his most innocent expression, and at long last, she’d given a withering nod and told him to get some rest.

He’d never been alone in the Lyttelton house before. As a child, whenever his mother would bring them to visit their uncle, the house was always bustling with activity and brimming over with distant relations, all of whom Sherlock found completely intolerable. But that night, it was blissfully quiet; absent the family and most of the staff, it felt unnaturally serene in the glowing moonlight. 

He waited by the window of the parlour. He’d taken a hit (or two, or three) just to calm his nerves, but his hands still shook a bit as he peered out into the darkness.

_What if he doesn’t come?_

He pushed the thought from his head. He would show up, he had to, after all, he’d--

And there, _there,_ at the end of the drive, a shimmer of movement-- Sherlock’s heart seemed to leap into his throat. And yes, moments later, Gabriel’s form materialised from the darkness, bundled in a thick coat and huddled from the cold.

Sherlock all but sprinted on his way to throw open the door.

And then realised he had _no_ idea what to do next. Should he smile? Say hello? Offer a handshake, or a hug?

But luckily, Gabriel gave him no time to hesitate. He strode into the foyer, pulling his scarf back from where it had been wrapped around his face, and captured Sherlock’s lips in a searing kiss.

Sherlock could have melted then and there.

But he didn’t. Somehow they eventually managed to stop kissing, and Sherlock helped Gabriel divest himself of his winter wear, tossing it haphazardly onto the coat rack by the door between shy smiles and awkward giggles.

Finally, they stood face to face. Gabriel reached forward to clasp Sherlock’s hand.

_“It’s good to see you, meu gatinho.”_

Sherlock grinned. _“Would you like a drink?”_

_“I’ll have whatever you’re offering.”_

With a conspiratorial wink, Sherlock led Gabriel to the study, where he snatched a bottle of whiskey off the bar cart and took three long pulls before offering it to Gabriel. Laughing, Gabriel followed suit.

What happened next was… blurry, at best. Sherlock didn’t usually mix alcohol with cocaine, but he’d already had a few hits before Gabriel and arrived, yet it seemed rude not to match him drink for drink as they downed the whiskey. He vaguely recalls the two of them playing a raucous game of billiards before heading upstairs, grabbing a bottle of red wine from the kitchen along the way, stopping to kiss and grope and frot frantically at random intervals throughout.

By the time they reached Sherlock’s bedroom, any shyness or trepidation Sherlock had been experiencing had evaporated completely. He opened the wine and they drank it straight from the bottle as they sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, passing it back and forth while Gabriel rolled a joint for them after producing weed and rolling papers from God only knows where. The next thing Sherlock knew, he was further gone than he’d been in recent memory, and Gabriel was touching him _everywhere,_ and it felt so goddamned _good_ he was sure he was going to explode. 

When he was sober, too much touch was overwhelming. But in his current state? It was _exquisite._

“C’mon, le’s get in bed.” He finally managed to pull away and rise shakily to his feet; it was only after seeing the perplexed look on Gabriel’s face that he realised he’d spoken in English. He shook his head and willed his sluggish brain to formulate the sentence in Portuguese, before finally giving up and just settling on a single word. _“Bed?”_

Luckily, that seemed read loud and clear, and in what felt like an instant, he and Gabriel were naked, tangled under the covers and moving together in ways that were brand new yet somehow the most natural thing in the world.

Gabriel muttered something into his ear that Sherlock couldn’t comprehend. He pulled away to peer up at him quizzically, and Gabriel flushed as he attempted to string his words together.

“You have, euh… you have… for, euh, sex? Water? Euh, wet… for sex?”

“Oh!” Sherlock’s brain rattled noisily as it pieced the request together, and he mentally congratulated himself for his prodigious planning skills; he’d popped into a discreet sex shop the last time he’d been in the city and purchased a bottle of lube with this very situation in mind.

He’d never had penetrative sex before and it had felt somehow unacceptably presumptuous, so he’d hidden the bottle at the bottom of his suitcase, hardly daring to hope that he might have the chance to use it with Gabriel. But as he rummaged frantically through his bag, flinging jumpers and t-shirts haphazardly to the side as he hung off the edge of the bed, Gabriel pressed up behind him and trailing heated kisses down his spine, he cursed himself for making the damn thing so inaccessible.

After what he was fairly certain was an eternity, his fingers finally closed around the cool plastic of the bottle, and he pulled it aloft with a victorious shout. Gabriel beamed down at him and took the bottle into his hand before positioning himself to kneel between Sherlock’s spread legs. 

Sherlock watched transfixed as Gabriel squeezed some of the liquid onto his fingers and began to slick up his cock. The room was spinning in a most unnerving way, but all that mattered was having Gabriel inside of him; the sheer immensity of his _want_ felt overwhelming, threatening to suffocate him beneath the weight of it. Sherlock spread his legs further and tilted his pelvis back, issuing a high-pitched whine.

Gabriel leaned forward to kiss him, his cock prodding hotly between Sherlock’s spread cheeks. Sherlock felt a shiver of apprehension run up his spine; though he hadn’t been able to procure much information about gay sex besides what he’d sussed out from anatomy manuals and the few dirty magazines he’d gotten his hands on over the years, he was fairly certain that there was supposed to be _some_ kind of prep work that went into this, but Gabriel seemed to be skipping over that step altogether. But who was Sherlock to judge? Gabriel seemed calm and confident, and Sherlock was nothing but an antisocial virgin; he’d best lie back and let Gabriel take the reins.

Though, come to think of it, he was also pretty sure he should be asking Gabriel to put on a condom. But the pack he’d bought was buried somewhere at the bottom of his suitcase, and he couldn’t remember the Portuguese word for _condom,_ so the whole ordeal suddenly seemed more trouble than it was worth; he didn’t want his annoying neurosis ruining the moment, after all.

On top of him, Gabriel was breathing hotly into his mouth as he thrust his prick gently against Sherlock’s crack, the tip catching ever so slightly against his rim with each undulation. Finally, Gabriel pulled back and propped himself up on one elbow, reaching down to steady his cock with his other hand before lining it up.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

The sound of the bedroom door slamming open broke the spell instantaneously. The next thing he knew, Gabriel was _gone,_ scrambling away from him and stealing the sheets to hide his modesty while a familiar voice shouted _Get off! Get away from him! Out! Out!_ in perfect, unaccented Portuguese.

By the time Sherlock had processed what was happening, Gabriel had pulled his trousers on, his t-shirt and jumper clutched in his arms as he bolted out the bedroom door, the sound of his footsteps on the grand staircase echoing down the hall before fading into oblivion, ultimately punctuated by the slamming of the front door.

Sherlock finally managed to pull himself into a sitting position. There, seething in the centre of the room, was Mycroft. And he was glaring daggers at Sherlock.

“What the _fuck,_ Mycroft.” Sherlock was irate, but he was also so drunk and high that his words were slurred, making his displeasure sound more pathetic than angry. He was stark naked and still half-hard, but Gabriel had stolen all the sheets as he escaped from the bed, and Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be arsed to care. All he knew is that he was going to fucking _murder_ his brother.

“What the _fuck?_ You’re asking _me_ what the fuck? I arrive here to find the house empty and you upstairs, drunk as a sailor and high as a kite, entertaining the damned _groundskeeper?_ For God’s sake, Sherlock, could you _be_ more pathetically predictable?”

“Fuck off, Mycroft. We were just having fun.”

“Fun? You find getting wasted beyond coherence and then having unprotected sex with a stranger is _fun?_ Because if that’s the case, brother mine, we have larger issues at hand.”

Sherlock swayed uncertainly in his position on the bed. “Gabriel’s not a stranger. I know him. We’re friends.”

“Oh, you’re friends, are you? So you know everything about him.”

“I know enough.”

“Enough to trust him to have unprotected sex with you?”

“It’s none of your business. I know what I need to know.”

“So you’re aware that he has a wife and young daughter in Lisbon, then?”

And Sherlock had unceremoniously leaned over the side of the bed and thrown up all over the 200-year-old antique oriental rug.

He doesn’t remember most of the rest of that night, but what he does remember still makes his cheeks burn with mortification. He remembers Mycroft helping him into the bath and then wordlessly supervising as he washed himself down, sobbing uncontrollably as he scrubbed all remnants of Gabriel’s presence from his own skin. He remembers being guided gently into bed, then tucked in under fresh sheets, Mycroft’s cool fingers pushing his curls back from his feverish forehead. He remembers Mycroft waking him sometime during the night, holding a glass of water to his parched lips and imploring him to drink, which Sherlock did, like a man dying of thirst. And he remembers glimpses of Mycroft’s face, for once not smug and triumphant, but weary and concerned, his forehead creased and the bags under his eyes puffy and pronounced.

The next morning, he awoke hung-over and humiliated. The drugs and alcohol had worked their way out of his system, but he had a raging headache and felt weak and wrung-out. He stayed in bed all day.

Sometime in the late morning, he noticed that Mycroft had cleaned the rug.

The next four days at the estate were intolerable. He’d stayed in bed for most of them, feigning illness. For the first 24 hours he diligently avoided his stash, but soon found himself awake at 2AM, sweating and shaking, and finally succumbed to temptation, taking a small hit just to keep the edge off. He continued to self-medicate for the rest of his stay, just to keep the withdrawal at bay. Mycroft checked in on him constantly, but said nothing.

The morning of Boxing Day, he’d packed his suitcase and prepared himself for the interminable train ride back to Uni, but as he made his way down the stairs, a pair of unfamiliar faces in the foyer stopped him in his tracks. Mycroft was engaged in a quiet conversation with them, but looked up as Sherlock descended.

“Ah, Sherlock, there you are. Packed and ready to go, I see. This is Dr. Whitby and Mr. Horne; they’ll be escorting you to their facility, where you’ll be staying for a while.”

The woman (Dr. Whitby, apparently), smiled placatingly at Mycroft. “We don’t refer to Haverson Acres as a _facility,_ Mr. Holmes. It’s a _home,_ a safe place away from all the negative influences of the outside world, where our guests can relax and focus on their wellbeing.”

“Oh, _hell no.”_ Sherlock began to back away and briefly contemplated running back up the stairs, but he realised his escape routes would be limited from there; he needed to traverse the foyer to gain access to the rest of the house, so he was more or less cornered.

“Now, now, Sherlock, don’t make a scene--”

“You’re sending me back to bloody _rehab? Are you fucking serious?”_ He hissed the words through his teeth, distinctly aware that the rest of his relatives were still at home, and he preferred they not be privy to this conversation.

“Sherlock, it’s glaringly obvious to even the most pedestrian observer that you’ve experienced a relapse.”

“No shit, Mycroft. But rehab didn’t work last time, and it’s sure as hell not going to work this time. I don’t _need_ rehab, what I need is for you to keep your nose out of my fucking business.” Sherlock was incensed; sure, he’d been casually using again for the past few months, but he _had it under control._ It wasn’t like last time, after Alice. No, it sure as hell wasn’t like that. 

“I must respectfully disagree, brother mine. And I’m sure you’ll find Haverson Acres a markedly superior facility -- erm, _home_ \-- to the last place we tried. It’s top of the line, the best money can buy, and utterly discrete. You’ll get better there.” He sounded so fucking smug and self-assured that Sherlock wanted to punch him.

“I don’t need to be _better,_ I’m _fine,_ you can go fuck yourself. Besides, Mummy and Father want me in school, they told me so--”

“And after I explained to them what had happened this week, they now agree with me that school is not the place for you right now.”

Sherlock was gobsmacked. “You _told_ them? What did you tell them?!” He could feel panic rising in his chest, a hot, queasy sensation that he couldn’t tamp down.

“You needn’t worry, I left out the more sordid details, but they fully agree with me, Sherlock, you need to be in treatment--”

“It’s because I’m gay, isn’t it?” He felt on the edge of hysterics, and he realised with a surreal jolt that this was the first time he’s actually said those words out loud; before it had been implicit, something about him that simply _was,_ no explanation or clarification required. But now he’d gone and said it, and there could be no turning back, and the thought made him feel like he was veering dangerously towards the edge of something he couldn’t control.

“That has nothing to do with it, Sherlock, surely you don’t think so little of us that we’d--”

“FUCK YOU! I’m not going! You can’t make me!” He was shouting now, the paranoia overtaking him and damning all thoughts of civility to hell.

“Sherlock, please, don’t make a scene. Just go quietly. You needn’t make this more embarrassing than it surely already is.”

Sherlock blinked away the tinge of red clouding his vision, only to register the faces of his great-aunt and youngest cousin peering curiously into the foyer, his mother not far behind.

Damn it all. He couldn’t stand their fucking _pity._

“Fine. Let’s go.”

And with that, he’d snatched up his suitcase and marched out the front door, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, vowing never to return again.

His stay at Haverson Acres had been unobjectionable enough, but sobriety didn’t stick. He was back in another round of rehab at a different facility less than two years later, but again, it had little effect; he was off the wagon within 12 months.

That time, the one following his third round of rehab, had been the worst of it. His parents had cut off his trust fund and he’d conclusively failed out of school. He had no job, no prospects, and no friends except the ones he’d met in rehab, and they were more _allies_ than friends. He reconnected with them and started crashing on the sofa in their squalid flat in Islington, but they were a terrible influence on one another-- they were all habitual users and compulsively fed one another’s habits, soon snowballing into full-blown benders.

Money was always a problem. He was constantly in search of his next fix, and strangely, it was a run-in with Mycroft one unassuming day that provided the most obvious of solutions.

He’d bumped into Mycroft (who was in the company of yet another of his insufferable friends from the office) whilst out for a walk in Belgravia. He was fairly certain from the look on Mycroft’s face that he was well aware that Sherlock had been making good use of his conveniently sticky fingers (and please, those government twats were all but ASKING to have their wallets stolen), but Mycroft had been restrained and frankly civil. His friend had shaken Sherlock’s hand as they departed, and Sherlock had been startled to find a phone number scrawled onto a scrap of paper left in the palm of his glove.

That night, he’d dialed it.

And that was the beginning of the bad part. Not that what came before hadn’t been bad, but what Sherlock had fallen into following that phone call had been a low point, even for him.

Mycroft’s friend was well-connected within the chambers of power in the government, and as it turned out, there were a fair number of men within those chambers who, in exchange for anonymity and utmost discretion, were more than willing to provide Sherlock (and others in similar predicaments) with either the drugs he wanted or the funds he needed to procure them.

All he had to do was service them.

It wasn’t so bad, he’d told himself at the time. After all, most of the time it was no different than the types of encounters he’d had back at school; he’d get the man off with his mouth or his hands, and then promptly take his leave. The only difference was, now he got paid for it.

He didn’t fool himself into thinking that was he was doing was good, or healthy, or right. But it supported his habit, freeing him of the humiliating task of asking his parents or Mycroft for money. He held down a series of odd jobs to pay his rent, but for the most part, all he cared about was knowing that his next fix was secure.

He didn’t do it all the time. He kept it rare enough that he could somehow still claim plausible deniability, mentally justify his dabbling through a tangled web of excuses and justifications.

Because there were times that were Not Good, of course. Times when his clients would be members of society and recognise him as Mycroft’s brother, laughing and hurling insults at him as they had their way with him. Occasions when his regulars would treat him poorly; hit him or push him or pull his hair, choke him when they thrust too hard, threaten him if they were short on cash or product and were trying to rip him off. He didn’t take kindly to being shortchanged, and it was after one such incident that it all came to a head.

He’d gone to see one of his regulars at his office at Portcullis House. The man was working late and Sherlock was vaguely annoyed by the after-hours call, but he paid double what most of Sherlock’s clients did, and he always got off fast and with little fanfare. So despite the fact that Sherlock was more than a little high already, he’d made his way across town, given the man a blow job under his desk, and had was making to take his leave when he held out his hand for money.

The man (Sherlock had long since deleted his name and face; it was best not to remember these things) had given him a little smirk and said he was short tonight, but that he’d make it up later.

Sherlock was _incensed._ He and his flatmates were desperately short on product, and he was counting on the fast cash to re-up on his way home. If he didn’t collect, they’d all be in for a rough day tomorrow, and he was in no mood to deal with a crash.

So he’d threatened the man with going public. 

In hindsight, it had been stupid. He was too high to anticipate the man’s next move, so when the back of his fist connected with Sherlock’s cheekbone, it sent him reeling before he could even process what was happening.

But it didn’t stop there. The man beat him until he couldn’t move, sprawled out on the dingy rug on the office floor, silently praying he’d lose consciousness soon so that it would just be _over._

Mercifully (?), the man stopped before it got to that point. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the sound of him picking up the phone and tapping out a number.

“Yeah, I have a situation in my office. I’m going to need some cover on this… no, it’s bad. We’ll need the big guns. You know who to call. He’ll make it go away.” Then he’d hung up the phone, sat down at his desk, and proceeded to file papers while Sherlock lay on the ground, his breath rattling wetly in his throat, willing himself to stay awake.

After a seeming eternity, the office door swung open. Three men in dark suits entered-- henchmen, obviously, part of some obscure cleanup team employed to make situations like this one conveniently _disappear._ Sherlock turned his head groggily in their direction.

And then stopped breathing.

Because bringing up the rear was Mycroft.

The moment their eyes met was one of the most surreal Sherlock can recall in his life. He could distinguish the exact moment that Mycroft recognised him, deduce the precise train of Mycroft’s thought as all the pieces fell into place, comprehending the gravity of what it all meant.

But despite it all, he’d never been so happy to see his big brother in his life.

He’d closed his eyes, and smiled.

He never found out what happened to the man who had beaten him. The story in the papers was that he’d left the country suddenly as a result of an embezzlement scandal, but Sherlock was no fool. Yet he and Mycroft never spoke of it again. 

Mycroft had taken Sherlock back to his posh flat mere blocks away. He’d called in a private doctor, who’d tended Sherlock’s wounds and delivered a prescription for the detox. He’d let Sherlock sleep as much as he could, fed him broth when he couldn’t stomach anything else, and placed cool compresses on his forehead as he sweat feverishly, then bundled him in down blankets when the chills shook his body so hard that he was certain his teeth would grind to powder. Mycroft didn’t speak much, but the lines on his face spoke volumes in his stead.

By the evening of the fifth day, Mycroft had determined Sherlock was well enough to take a bath under his supervision. The task felt insurmountable to Sherlock in his weakened state, but the thought of rinsing the grime from his ravaged body was too appealing to resist, so he’d reluctantly acquiesced.

As Mycroft helped Sherlock lower himself into the water, Sherlock could feel his gaze sweeping over him, calculating and categorising the story written plainly across his skin. Sherlock laid back against the edge of the tub, and waited for Mycroft to speak.

He didn’t disappoint.

“There are older bruises on your body, too.” Mycroft’s tone was matter-of-fact.

“Mmm.”

“Are they from him as well? Or were there others?”

Sherlock rolled his shoulders in the blissfully hot water and closed his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t. _Were there others?”_

“Yes.” 

“Names?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Don’t play games with me, Sherlock. _Names.”_

“It was _my choice,_ Mycroft. No one forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do. If you want to punish someone for this, punish me. No one else needs to suffer.”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “It would seem, brother mine, that you’ve suffered enough.”

They’d lapsed into a long silence, Sherlock basking in the soothing heat of the bath, Mycroft procuring a stack of official-looking papers from God-only-knows-where, which he reviewed with a dispassionate expression from where he’d perched himself on the toilet seat, keeping a close eye to make sure Sherlock didn’t lose consciousness and sink beneath the water.

At long last, Sherlock spoke again.

“I don’t actually have sex with them, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft lowered his papers and peered at Sherlock inquisitively.

“I just… in case you were worried. I don’t have penetrative intercourse with them. I just do… other stuff.”

“Oh. Um, that’s… good. Alright then.” Even in the dim light of the bathroom, Sherlock could make out a flush spreading across Mycroft’s cheeks.

It was strange, though. Sherlock had rarely been one for talking, and he certainly did not partake in frank heart-to-hearts with his meddlesome older brother, but somehow in the steamy haze of the bathroom, inhibitions lowered by the prescription detox medication, the world seemed distinctly surreal from his seat in the claw-foot bathtub, and he found that he couldn’t seem to shut his mouth, spilling out truths that he’d long since buried deep inside.

“I haven’t had sex with anyone, you know,” he blathered thoughtlessly. “I don’t know if I ever will. I actually find the idea of sex rather alarming, to be quite honest.”

Mycroft let out an amused chuckle, and Sherlock cast him a scathing glare. “What’s so funny?”

“Alarming?” Mycroft’s tone was gentle and undeniably lacking the usual streak of judgement.

“Well yes, what with all the touching and the feeling and the bloody _intimacy,_ it sounds _hateful,_ the lot of it, I don’t know how anyone muddles through...”

Mycroft gave him a placating smile. “If it alarms you, you needn’t do it. There’s no law that you have to. You can simply avoid it.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Is that what you do? Avoid it?” The question was blisteringly personal, the type of thing that Sherlock would _never_ ask in a million years if he were in his right mind, but he was not in his right mind; he was still in the throes of withdrawal, weak and disorientated and, for some unknown reason, attempting to have an honest conversation with bloody Mycroft.

Mycroft pursed his lips, and for one heart-stopping moment, Sherlock was certain he’d overstepped. But then Mycroft responded, his tone measured and deliberate. “I think it’s best the details of my personal life remain private. But what I will tell you is this: there is no harm in being alone. For people like us, with our… abilities, relationships may not be the best option. Alone can sustain you. Alone can _protect_ you. Do you understand?” His gaze was unwavering.

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “Yes. I understand.”

Mycroft smiled at him once more, in a strange, doting way that made Sherlock feel safe. “Do you think you’d like to try sobriety again?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. I’ll try.”

“Promise me?”

“Promise.”

They’d never spoken about that night again.

Afterwards, Sherlock had thought, for a time, that there was a chance for their dynamic to change. He’d even hoped; hope against hope.

But old habits died hard. Sherlock would relapse again in 2005 and endure a 4th round of rehab. That had been yet another low point; He and Mycroft had come to blows that time when Mycroft tried to admit him, and it was basically by force that he’d been admitted to the facility at all. He’d checked himself out early that time. Soon afterwards, he would meet a charming young man named Victor Trevor, and Mycroft would let his true colours be shown once more.

But for a time, Sherlock had hoped.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

“Hm?” Sherlock is snapped back to the present by John’s voice, startlingly loud in the silence of the car.

“Wasn’t that our turn?”

Sherlock brakes hard and makes a rather embarrassing 6-point turn between the narrow hedgerows to re-orient the car in the correct direction, swearing quietly under his breath. 

Once back en route, he glances over at John, who was giving him a concerned look, his brow knit with worry. “Hey. You alright?”

“Mmm. Yes. Just… distracted, is all. Got lost in my head for a moment there.”

John ruffles his hair fondly and gives him his warmest smile. “Now, remember what we agreed? No Mind Palace while driving. Eyes and brains on the road, yeah?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, John.”

“Need me to keep you occupied? I can sing if you’d like. I know ‘Twelve Days Of Christmas’ is your favourite--”

“God, no, please, no!”

John cackles wickedly and then clears his throat in an obnoxiously exaggerated manner before taking a deep breath.

“Please, John, I’m begging you! Anything but that!”

John waggles his eyebrows. “What’s that? The great Sherlock Holmes, _begging?”_

Sherlock gives an exasperated sigh. “YES. Begging. Do NOT make me do it twice, or I’m turning this car around and we’re going home this instant.”

John throws back his head and laughs and Sherlock can’t help but follow suit, the bitterness over their earlier row dissolving in the warmth between them. As Sherlock gives John a sidelong glance (noticing the way his silver-grey hair catches the sunlight reflecting off the snow, appreciating how incredibly blue his eyes look against today’s December sky, mentally noting how his effortless grin is adorably lopsided when it’s truly sincere), he feels like his heart is in his throat.

God, John had changed everything.

_Everything._

Sherlock has come so far from the person he’d been the last time he’d traveled these country roads. He has a man by his side whose love has transformed him in ways he’s barely beginning to understand. And he has a child in the back seat, whose life has altered his so profoundly that he’s all but paralysed with gratitude.

He feels everything now, but it’s not overwhelming or suffocating - it’s invigorating, affirming, a mercy too enormous to comprehend.

Sherlock speaks on impulse. “I love you.” 

He and John rarely say those words aloud; within their dynamic, it’s a sentiment they prefer to leave unspoken. There’s rarely need for words of affirmation between them; their actions speak loudly enough for them both. John says those words more often than Sherlock does, but still, even John speaks them seldom at best.

John looks over to Sherlock with a soft expression on his face. “I love you, too. Everything alright?”

“Mmm. Just… nervous, I suppose. Large social gathering, lots of family… you know.”

John smiles endearingly at him. “I know. I really appreciate you doing this. You know that, right?”

Sherlock gives him a wry glance. “Yes. And I’ll remind you that you’ve promised to show your appreciation in a delightful myriad of ways-- don’t think I’m going to forget to cash in on that.”

John shoots him a cheeky wink and places his hand atop Sherlock’s where it’s resting on the gear shift.

“Adda! Sock!” Rosie’s voice from the back seat jolts them both back to reality, and Sherlock indulgently allows John to lead them all in a rather creatively off-tune rendition of Jingle Bells, Rosie babbling along nonsensically, until they arrive at the familiar gate.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and drives through.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let’s get around to earning that “E” rating, shall we? Please note, I’m not going to provide the background of their pre-negotiated D/S dynamics in this installment, as I’ve covered it at length throughout my “Unwind” series. If you haven’t read the rest of the series, just know that the encounters described are safe, sane, and consensual.

John is fairly certain he’s never seen Sherlock act so strangely in his life--and Sherlock had famously moved the goalposts on what John considered strange. John knew that social gatherings put him on edge and he was fully aware that Sherlock didn’t exactly get on well with his family, but the palpable _degree_ of his discomfort was frankly startling. 

John had rather assumed Sherlock would act the way he had the year they’d all celebrated Christmas together at his parents’ country house; aloof, pompous, his usual arrogant self, just slightly tetchier in the heightened tension.

But this was something different altogether. The moment they’d handed the keys over the the valet (this estate had a bloody _valet?_ John had to use all of his willpower to keep from rolling his eyes), Sherlock had appeared to transform into a completely different person: He grew quiet and jittery and was noticeably avoiding eye contact with everyone as John received a warm and gracious welcome from Sherlock’s parents and a formal introduction to Sherlock’s uncle, aunt, and two cousins, all of whom seemed perfectly... well, _normal,_ if a bit stuck-up and posh.

John was beginning to think that perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

When he’d initially discussed the gala with his therapist, Dr. Richards, she’d been warmly encouraging.

“I think that attending is an excellent idea, John. It’s refreshing to see you embracing your relationship so openly that you’re ready to involve his family. That’s a pretty big step forward for you, wouldn’t you agree?”

John had to admit, it was. He’d spent so many years of his life denying what he and Sherlock had been, what they had become, how things were between them-- simply holding Sherlock’s hand in public for the first time had taken all the courage John could muster in that moment, and Christ, he’d invaded bloody _Afghanistan._

“Do you think Sherlock will be open to the idea of seeing his family over the holidays?” Dr. Richards had peered warmly at him over her half-moon spectacles, and John felt himself hesitate. A smile quirked the corner of Dr. Richards’s mouth; “Ah. I see there may be more to this, mmm?”

And so John had explained-- as best he could-- the completely _bewildering_ nature of Sherlock’s relationship with his own family.

How was it possible, he mused, that Sherlock’s parents could be so incredibly _ordinary_ and unobjectionable, yet Sherlock treated them with such disdain? How could it be that Sherlock’s mind was so like Mycroft’s, yet they so often found themselves diametrically opposed? Why must Sherlock goad his brother on, and why must Mycroft be so goddamned _nosey?_

Dr. Richards had listened intently, jotting down the occasional note (no conclusions, John observed, just facts to circle back to--he loved that Dr. Richards didn’t draw hasty conclusions like Ella once had), nodding intently as John helplessly attempted to describe how frankly _bizarre_ the family dynamics were.

When he’d finished, he sat back, shrugging and shaking his head. “So there you have it. At least, what I know of it, which isn’t much.”

Dr. Richards had paused for a long time, and when she finally spoke, it was with an air of hesitation.

“Have you… asked him about his history with his family?”

John licked his lips. “Not… not point-blank, no, but I’ve sniffed around the edges enough to know it’s not a welcome topic.”

Dr. Richards nodded-- she was already well-aware of the difficulty he and Sherlock sometimes had discussing their pasts; it wasn’t easy for men like them, with famously stiff upper lips, to delve into something so deeply personal.

“Alright, John. Now, I have to give you a disclaimer here: I don’t specialise in addiction treatment and I’ve never met Sherlock, so what I’m about to say is simply my own conjecture based upon my limited exposure to cases like this one. Will you remind me, at what age did Sherlock start using drugs?”

“Sixteen.”

“Mmm. And he was in and out of rehab multiple times throughout the years, was he not?”

“Yeah, five times total, I think. Last one was in… 2005, 2006 maybe? A few years before I met him.”

“Right. And he’s relapsed on occasion since then?”

“Yes, briefly, but managed to get back on the wagon himself.”

“Right. Again, John, what I’m saying now is simply based on compounded data, but I’m wondering if it might shed some light on this particular situation: For individuals that became addicted at such a young age, the road to sobriety is often a long one, full of struggles and setbacks. As evidenced by Sherlock’s history, it would seem that his path was rocky at best. And for people who have battled addiction that long, there’s a good chance that, during that time, they’ve done things they’re not proud of.”

John nodded slowly.

“Chances are, they’ve behaved in ways that, in retrospect, they find humiliating. Their families have seen them at their sickest and most vulnerable. It’s likely that they stole from their families at some point, or lied to get money from them. And the addict isn’t the only one suffering, the family struggles, too: They often start out as enablers, believing that if they can just keep their loved one safe and provided for, they’ll be able to set themselves right. And when that fails, the tough-love starts: The family will withdraw resources, kick them out of their home, enroll them in rehabilitation centres that are more like boot camps than environments for productive recovery. The addict feels shamed and persecuted, the family feels helpless and hopeless. It’s a volatile mix at best, and over the course of two decades, I can imagine it would take its toll on anyone. Do you think that perhaps Sherlock’s experience may have resembled this?”

John feels miles away, on a private plane recently returned to the tarmac after Sherlock’s aborted exile, Mycroft demanding a list and Sherlock defiantly providing it. The pained look on Mycroft’s face as he begged Sherlock: “Promise me?” as Sherlock pushed his way past him and out the door. And hearing Mycroft’s final plaintive plea: “Dr. Watson? Look after him… please?”

He suddenly felt as though he couldn’t speak. He simply nodded dumbly.

Dr. Richards had given him an appraising look. “I think you have the best of intentions, John. Wanting Sherlock to reconnect with his family, wanting Rosie to know her relatives and have a sense of belonging, those are good, important impulses, and they speak volumes to the effort that you’re putting into the family that you and Sherlock have created. But if he declines to see his extended family, hear him out. And if he agrees, just know, he’ll likely need your support more than ever during that time. If there’s even an iota of hesitation in your mind about attending the gathering as his partner - his _out,_ openly devoted partner - I’d suggest you not go.” Dr. Richards was very familiar with John’s qualms about his sexuality; it was one of their most common topics of conversation.

John had nodded resolutely. There could be no hesitation.

And he’d had none. When Sherlock had (admittedly reluctantly) agreed to let them attend, John was over the moon. And he’d steeled himself for whatever paces he’d be put through as a man in a homosexual relationship attending a society gathering with his partner; surely it couldn’t be worse than, say… invading Afghanistan.

Surely.

But as they hand Rosie over the family nanny (who coos and fawns over her perfect golden ringlets, and Rosie seems equally instantly smitten) and make their way up to Sherlock’s room with their luggage, John can’t help but feel uneasy. 

Perhaps this was all too much too soon.

They deposit their bags and stand face-to-face, the silence stretching out between them.

John speaks first.

“So, this is… the room you stayed in on your holidays as a child?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s eyes gaze into John’s unwaveringly.

“Can I have a tour?”

Sherlock doesn’t move, and he doesn’t break eye contact. “Bed. Desk. Wardrobe. En suite bathroom’s over there.” He gestures vaguely to his left. “Any questions?”

John manages to quirk a smile at him. “I suppose not.”

Sherlock lets out an apparently exasperated huff, and turns to stare out the window at the wintery grounds below. John comes up behind him and wraps his arms around him, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck.

“The gala doesn’t start for three hours. Do you want to try and take a nap? I heard you up and about all last night, you must be exhausted.” Sherlock hadn’t come to bed the night before.

Sherlock rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck again, a sure sign sign that he’s wound up.

“Alright. That might be nice.” John’s completely taken by surprise; he can occasionally trick Sherlock into taking a catnap during the day, but it usually involves a decent amount of either bribery or feigned nonchalance; it’s rare that Sherlock will acquiesce on his own.

But John tries not to make a big deal about it. He simply rummages around his bag until he pulls out one of the rubbish crime novels he’s been slowly working his way through (he doesn’t have much time for reading these days; in fact, he’s fairly certain he’s been trying to finish this particular book for the better part of 8 months), and makes his way to the bed, kicking off his shoes and reclining back onto the frankly obscene mountain of decorative throw pillows.

Sherlock follows suit, minus the book; he toes off his shoes and removes his jacket and shirt, replacing them with a soft cotton t-shirt he pulls from the depths of his bag before making his way over to curl up beside John.

This is how they nap; it’s an unspoken ritual that they’ve established after lengthy trial and error. John doesn’t nap easily (he used to in med school, but Army life had burned that habit out of him fairly completely), so he rarely partakes. His job is to lie still and read or watch telly while combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair until Sherlock finally drifts off. They usually nap on the sofa at home, but if they make it to the bed, they never get under the covers. For some reason, that puts Sherlock more at ease (he claims it makes him feel less like he’s wasting time), and John doesn’t mind much either way; whatever gets him the satisfaction of a heavy armful of slumbering consulting detective.

Sherlock drifts off in record time. John tries to pay attention to his book, but the unfamiliar surroundings have him wired and on edge. And not only that, but he’s finding it impossible to tear his eyes away from Sherlock now that he’s removed his long sleeved shirt and replaced it with a t-shirt.

Because he’s bruised and rope-burned and chafed and looking utterly fucking _delicious,_ but John absolutely, positively _cannot_ touch. It’s far too soon.

Three days ago, they’d wrapped a major case they’d been working for a private client. By the time the case was drawing to a close, they were both sleep-deprived and so far past exhaustion that John was having trouble standing upright. But time had been of the essence, and in the end, it had paid off: They’d restored an ancient family heirloom to its rightful owners mere moments before it was set to be auctioned off on the black market, doomed to fade into the depths of the underworld. The thrill of the last-second rescue had left them both buzzed, and by the time they were in the taxi on the way back to their flat, John had no doubt in his mind that they were both ready to _unwind._

And Christ, their session had been glorious. For the previous few weeks, John had been fastidiously researching Japanese bondage techniques after stumbling across a post about them on one of the D/S message boards he frequented. The pictures alone had gotten him hard as hell, and he was delighted to learn that the techniques demonstrated in the YouTube videos he watched came fairly easily to him-- finally, all the pointless knot training he’d done in the military was about to be good for _something._ He’d conveniently happened to place an order for several lengths of jute rope mere days before their last case had started.

So when they’d gotten home after solving the case, John had subjected Sherlock to an official bondage practice for the first time.

They’d played around with casual bondage before, of course, using belts or scarves or handcuffs, and it had been pleasurable enough. But this was something else entirely; trussing Sherlock up like a piece of goddamned _art_ had been so intensely erotic, John had had to jerk himself off twice all over Sherlock’s semi-restrained form before he’d even been able to finish the most basic of displays. Then he’d edged Sherlock for an hour, twisting his nipples and teasing his prostate with his fingers and a vibrator until Sherlock was a quivering, sobbing mess of oversensitised nerves, his untouched cock throbbing against his abdomen, and John was so hard again he was fairly certain he could’ve cut glass. He’d settled instead for reaming Sherlock into oblivion while Sherlock wailed and begged and strained so _prettily_ against his ropes before coming completely untouched, the image searing itself into the most primal part of John’s brain, spurning him on to one of his most consuming orgasms in recent memory.

But the aftermath had been a bit more intense than John was expecting. He knew Sherlock bruised incredibly easily, but John was frankly _shocked_ when he saw the state of Sherlock’s arms and legs the next morning. They were a hatched mess of deep aubergine stripes, bordered by a pretty pink flush where his skin had chafed against the rough jute during his struggles. John was on the verge of being completely horrified, but Sherlock had chosen that exact moment to wake up, notice the state of his skin, and become so _delighted_ by the violent array imprinted across his flesh that he’d all but skipped to the bathroom to admire himself, before shouting at John to come hold the hand mirror at the correct angle so that Sherlock could see his own back. And so of course, John had had no choice but to to indulge him.

Now, three days later, the bruises have faded to a royal blue hue, with a sickly pea-green aura that would make John wince in sympathy, were it not so goddamned _erotic_. Sherlock had spent a majority of the last three days prancing about the flat in nothing but a thin t-shirt and his most low-slung sweatpants, claiming that any more coverage “aggravated the chafing,” though John is _fairly_ certain the ensemble was designed more to test John’s willpower than for Sherlock’s comfort.

Because after a session (particularly a Level 3 session, like their last one had been--John had fucked Sherlock three more times that night alternating between using his cock and the vibrator to induce Sherlock’s orgasms, and none of the encounters were what one might consider gentle by any stretch of the imagination), John insists on giving Sherlock’s body time to recover from the ravaging he’s dealt it--usually about a week, or at least until the worst of the bruises fade, and Sherlock can sit down without wincing. Sherlock pouts about it throughout the duration of the mandated celibacy, but John suspects they both enjoy the _yearning_ the recovery time incites; usually by the time John gives them the all-clear, they’re both nearly gagging for it all over again.

So it had been a bit of a relief that today’s activities required the donning of actual long-sleeved garments. However, John hadn’t quite accounted for this momentary lapse of coverage in the course of his planning, and therefore found himself spending a majority of the next hour and a half staring unabashedly at the bruises, his cock straining inside his jeans as he replayed all the most glorious highlights of their session while Sherlock slept, innocently oblivious.

Eventually, Sherlock’s eyelids flutter open, and he blinks up at John.

“You’re hard.”

John shifts uncomfortably. He wasn’t exactly tenting his trousers; he felt half-hard, at best, and was frankly a little put off by how quickly Sherlock had deduced his current state.

“Just a little. Looking at your arms. They’re gorgeous today, love.”

Sherlock pulls himself into a sitting position next to John, sinking back into the throw pillows, a brilliant grin blooming across his face. “I know, aren’t they just? Look at my _wrists.”_ He holds one up for John to inspect. John takes it into his hand and traces over the paper-thin flesh with his fingers, watching as gooseflesh raises up Sherlock’s forearm as the does so.

“Beautiful.” The marks around Sherlock’s wrists are the darkest John’s ever made; the jute had somehow aggravated the skin more than the belts or handcuffs they’d used in the past ever had, and the results are stunning.

Sherlock sighs contentedly and presses his fingers against the markings, his eyes bright and earnest. John loves seeing him so satisfied like this.

It’s also making him very, _very_ aroused, and he can’t help but hazard a glance and note that Sherlock is in a similar state.

Sherlock’s eyes suddenly snap to his, and he grins wickedly before leaning in to claim John’s mouth with his own.

But John pulls back. As much as he wants Sherlock right now (and _Christ,_ does he want him-- the thought of fucking him while he’s all marked up and still sore does things to John that he can’t even bring himself to admit because no, _no_ ), he knows he has a responsibility as the Dominant partner to keep this safe-- and that means giving Sherlock time to heal.

“No, Sherlock. It’s too soon. Besides, we’re in your uncle’s _house._ That’s… weird, right?” John _wants_ it to be weird, but there’s also something deliciously deviant about the thought of fucking Sherlock in his childhood bedroom, but John’s trying desperately to push that thought from his mind.

“Mmmm, John, please? I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

“No. I’m going to finish this chapter of my book, then we should shower and start getting ready. Your mother mentioned she wants our help setting up a few things before cocktail hour starts.”

Sherlock sinks back into the pillows with an exasperated sigh, and John turns his attention back to his book.

Moments later, however, his attention is diverted back to Sherlock.

Who has pulled out his cock and begun jerking himself off without a single iota of shame.

“Sherlock, what are you _doing?”_

“Having a wank. You said you won’t have sex with me, so I’m taking care of this myself.” His hand moves faster on the flushed flesh in his fist, and John’s attention is riveted to the tip of his cock, where a bead of moisture has begun to form. Sherlock issues a heady sigh, and lets his head drop back as he closes his eyes.

“But… you… I can’t…” John sputters, his brain rapidly losing functionality as he takes in the spectacle beside him.

Sherlock pops one eye open inquisitively. “What are you going to do, hmm? Forbid me from touching myself, _Captain?”_

That’s a challenge if John’s ever heard one; Sherlock is clearly trying to goad him into engaging in a power exchange, but John knows better than to take the bait; they’re in an emotionally charged situation in an unfamiliar location, and he knows that experimenting with power dynamics in such a state would be a recipe for disaster. He’s at least learned that much.  
Sherlock’s hand picks up speed, and he issues one of the little grunts in the back of his throat that always drive John wild.

Sighing, John leans back, unfastens his own trousers, and takes himself in hand. He begins to stroke.

Sherlock breaks into a sly grin.

They don’t kiss. They don’t talk. They simply lie side-by-side, gazes flickering from one another’s face to their cocks, their breath quick and uneven where it intermingles between them.

It’s quaint, really, and strangely nostalgic: Back in the early days of their relationship, before Cornwall and the Fall and everything that came after, this was one of the most common ways they’d get off together. At that time, their encounters were still so new and strange and confusing (and so much between them remained unspoken, never defined), somehow sharing a mutual wank on the sitting room sofa felt like the easiest, least overwhelming option. John could never remember how it would start; it always felt like one second they were sitting side-by-side watching crap telly and laughing at Sherlock’s running narrative, and the next they were gazing intently into one another’s eyes, jerking themselves helplessly as everything else in the world dissolved around them. It had been… demure, and rather sweet.

Beside John, Sherlock issues a breathy whine, and his legs begin to part, heels digging into the mattress. John has always _loved_ this about Sherlock; no matter the situation, when he starts to get close to orgasm, he spreads his legs on instinct, as though he’s just _begging_ to be fucked. It’s driven John wild from the first time he’d seen it happen, and today is no exception; he lets out a soft _oh_ and starts to run his thumb over the tip of his own cock between frantic strokes, urging himself ever closer to the edge.

Sherlock gasps and parts his legs further, tipping his pelvis back, inviting John’s brain to conjure up memories of all the _marvelous_ things he gets to do to Sherlock’s arse when he has him like this: Flat on his back and out of his mind with lust, begging John to fuck him, fill him, claim him, make him _his--_

John bites his lip as he comes, cupping his spare hand to catch a majority of the mess as best he can while he strokes himself through it. At long last, he slumps back into the pillows and forces his eyes back open to watch Sherlock finish himself off.

Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and his head is tipped all the way back, exposing the gloriously pale expanse of his throat. His Adam’s apple is bobbing in time with his gasping breaths, and his eyelashes flutter in ecstasy.

His cock looks gorgeous, flushed deep red and offset beautifully against the nimble white violinist’s fingers pleasuring it. Sherlock’s hands always look so goddamned _elegant,_ even when they’re doing _this,_ it boggles John’s mind.

Sherlock employs his free hand to fondle his own balls, then reaches further below, undoubtedly pressing on his perineum. He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, accelerates his strokes, spreads his legs just a bit further, and then he’s there, spurting long streaks of come all over the front of his t-shirt, shaking and swearing quietly as he rides out the aftershocks, eyes clamped shut and head thrashing from side to side. Finally, he settles.

“Christ. You are an absolute _menace,_ you know that?” John shakes his head, nearly delirious with the simmering remnants of his arousal.

“Mmm, you may have mentioned it once or twice.” Sherlock blearily pulls himself into a sitting position and wrinkles his nose as the takes in the state of his soiled shirt. “Shit. Well, I guess I’ll be sleeping shirtless tonight, this was my only pajama top.”

John rolls his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the bed to stand, grabbing some tissues from the box on the bedside table and giving his hand a perfunctory wipedown. “Oh, I’m sure you’re absolutely _devastated._ You planned that, didn’t you? Dirtying your shirt to give you an excuse to show off your bruises some more?”

“John, I’m insulted. You truly think I’m that manipulative?” He gives John his best wide-eyed puppy dog look, and John can’t help but laugh and bend down to press a kiss against his lips.

“Oh, God, yes. One of the million reasons I adore you; you’re an excellent excuse for making irresponsible life choices.”

Sherlock gives him one of his rare thousand-watt smiles and gets to his feet, pulling off his soiled shirt and dabbing absently at his abdomen before chucking it over the back of the desk chair.

Christ, he could be _such_ a slob.

But John can’t miss the fact that Sherlock looks infinitely more relaxed now that he’s experienced some release. So when Sherlock invites John to join him in the shower (“No funny business, I promise, it’s simply more time-efficient this way, John”), John agrees without hesitation. They share coy smiles and the bar of soap, and John delights in the quiet intimacy between them as he washes down Sherlock’s back, resolutely avoiding his arse lest he get carried away.

By the time they’re dressed and ready, Sherlock is actually cracking jokes, his eyes bright and wide, without any sign of tension at the edges. Sherlock presses gentle kisses to the sensitive spot behind John’s ear as he steps up behind him to help him tie his tie (a half-Windsor, at Sherlock’s insistence; John’s usually more of a four-in-hand man himself), and John can’t miss the way Sherlock’s pupils dilate as he steps back to admire the full effect: John’s wearing the dark blue suit Sherlock had helped him pick out for his rehearsal dinner the night before his wedding to Mary, that infinite lifetime ago. He’s dressed it up with a silverish grey shirt and a thin tie in a complimentary blue with silver threads throughout (both purchased two weeks ago under Sherlock’s astute supervision), and Sherlock’s appreciation of the full effect is evident.

“Honestly, John, you look amazing like this. Why you insist on dressing like a colour-blind hobo most of the time is completely beyond me.” He looks almost forlorn.

“It’s my disguise, obviously. Criminal masterminds don’t give a second glance to short men in fuzzy jumpers.”

“Depends on how offensively patterned the jumpers are, John, some of yours are rather hard to miss.”

“Oh, shut up.” He gives Sherlock a lighthearted shove, and Sherlock leans down to capture his lips in a kiss.

“Alright, you.” John pulls away and steps back to brush down the shoulders of Sherlock’s jet black suit jacket, which offsets his deep crimson dress shirt and matching pocket square perfectly. He’s not wearing a tie, but somehow just the way he carries the whole ensemble makes it look exquisitely formal, in John’s (admittedly plebeian) opinion. “Come on, we should get downstairs.”

“Yes, heaven forbid we arrive late to help Mummy agonise over whether she’s chosen the wrong shade of white for the cocktail napkins this year. Let me give you a word to the wise: When in doubt, defer to whatever Mycroft’s said.”

John nearly chokes on his own tongue. “Did you just tell me to agree with _Mycroft?”_

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Exclusively on this occasion, and only on matters of aesthetics. Also, on whatever the current opinion is of Uncle Rudy; I can never remember where the family politics have landed with him.”

John gives a resolute nod. “Right, then.”

Sherlock extends his hand. “Shall we?”

John’s touched, and does his best to tamp down the pleased smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Sherlock rarely initiates public displays of affection, and it’s with a warm, fuzzy feeling that John takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. “We shall.”

Sherlock shoots him a wink, and they make their way downstairs together.


	4. Chapter 4

The evening had, thus far, been a success, in Mycroft’s distinguished opinion. The Farringtons and Lowsons were keeping their distance from one another, there’d been nary a squabble when the seating arrangements had been unveiled, and he’d even managed to convince Mummy that eggshell had _absolutely_ been the correct choice for the napkins that year, accenting the dovetail grey of the dishware perfectly. All in all, it was difficult to imagine it going better.

Even Sherlock was behaving. He was practically glued to Dr. Watson’s side, but he was smiling and _laughing_ and appeared to be engaging in _appropriate_ small talk, much to Mycroft’s dismay (with the one exception of when Great-Aunt Lillian had inevitably brought up Uncle Rudy and his “bizarre” cross-dressing habit, which she readily assured everyone “skipped a generation,” to which Mycroft is absolutely certain he heard Sherlock whisper a resounding, “Nope” into Dr. Watson’s ear, resulting in them having to remove themselves from the conversation due to a rather undignified fit of giggles). But aside from that, he was hard-pressed to find complaint.

His eyes narrow as he observes Sherlock and John from across the room, engaged in conversation with Victor Trevor and his husband. John is clearly uncomfortable: His jaw is set and he’s switched his drink from his left hand to his right, one of the good doctor’s more _predictable_ tells, but he remains silent as he watches Sherlock and Victor good-naturedly tag-team a story that apparently required a great deal of elaborate hand gestures. The story reaches its inevitable conclusion and the four men laugh, and Mycroft could see the tension dissipating from John’s shoulders--it would seem that the encounter was going well.

And though Mycroft loves drama (which he will, if pressed, adamantly deny until his dying day), he can’t help but feel something akin to a pang of _pride_ as he watches Sherlock navigate the evening. There had been so many times, _countless_ times, that Mycroft had been sure he was about to lose him forever, yet somehow, against all odds, he was _here,_ and he was _well,_ and he was… well, he seemed _happy._ It’s all more that Mycroft had ever dared to dream, back in those dark days of Sherlock’s strung-out benders, intermingled with his brief flirtations with sobriety marred by countless Danger Nights. Back in those days, he could never have imagined a night like this one.

And yet, here they were.

With that peculiar doctor of his steadfastly by his side.

Mycroft has never _disliked_ Dr. Watson. He simply does not _understand_ him, and to a mind as prodigious as Mycroft’s own, that enigma was... _Unsettling,_ at best. At first, he’d been completely flummoxed: John had appeared so _pedestrian,_ so _predictable,_ with his cane and his jumper and his ill-fitting jacket, Mycroft couldn’t for the life of him see why Sherlock wanted him around. 

But then John spoke those fateful words in that abandoned warehouse, the first night they met: “I don’t want to sit down.”

And Mycroft had been made startlingly aware that he was dealing with a different type of man entirely.

After that first encounter, Mycroft had been certain he’d got it right: John was clearly Sherlock’s fellow adrenaline junkie, lost after returning home from the service, so desperate for companionship in his quest for a high that he’d let Sherlock run him ragged before Sherlock inevitably grew bored and eventually disposed of him. John’s refusal to spy on Sherlock on Mycroft’s behalf was just a minor setback.

But the Doctor had surprised Mycroft once again. 

Because Sherlock kept John around. John pushed Sherlock to be better, and Sherlock _improved._ John asked Sherlock for more, and Sherlock _gave it._ John set his standards high, and Sherlock _rose to meet them._

And for God’s sake, John hadn’t even started sleeping with Sherlock until they’d been living together for _months!_ Either he had the willpower of a monk, or he was actually a man of integrity.

As soon as Mycroft deduced that the nature of their relationship had become sexual (he’d first detected the change shortly after the events of Bond Air), he’d devised a plan.

He’d fabricated some evidence about Irene Adler entering a Witness Protection Scheme, and brought it to John, then left the decision about what to do with it entirely in John’s hands.

Because in the past, John had never lied to Sherlock, even to spare his feelings. He’d been brutally honest (to the point of fault), and this would present John with a new challenge: Either notify Sherlock of Adler’s death (a clear victory for John, securing his claim on Sherlock’s affections once and for all), or lie to spare Sherlock the heartbreak.

And John had _lied._

He could have told the truth. John could have made Sherlock endure the emotional pain for the selfish benefit of claiming Sherlock all for himself, but he hadn’t. He had _lied,_ and given Sherlock that silly camera phone to keep, and coddled him through the resulting melancholy.

And that was the moment that Mycroft realised that John Watson really, truly loved Sherlock Holmes.

What came after… he tries not to dwell on what came after. Because it worries him.

It always will.

But tonight they are together, and Sherlock looks _happy,_ and Mycroft presses his lips together and shakes his head, bewildered by the way sometimes _(exceedingly rarely, of course)_ things manage to turn out on their own, despite his best efforts to intervene.

He makes his way over towards the platter of chocolate strawberries making the rounds, and is unsurprised to see Sherlock doing the same; for all their differences, their shared sweet tooth was always an unavoidable commonality.

Sherlock meets his eye and gives him a tight-lipped smile and reaches for a berry.

Mycroft glimpses his wrist, and his blood runs cold.

For a moment, he’s frozen, the reality of what he’s just witnessed too daunting for even his virtuosic brain to process. The world feels muted and upside-down, and it’s inconceivable to him that mere moments ago, he’d been filled with sentiment that could summarily be quantified as _contentment._

And now it’s all gone to hell.

_Damn it._

_There was always something._

_Every time._

“Brother mine, might I trouble you for a private word in the study?”

Sherlock shoots him an inquisitive glance, but surprisingly falls into step beside Mycroft without a word of protest, though he does shoot a forlorn glance back over his shoulder, where John is throwing back his head in laughter at something Victor Trevor’s husband has just said.

They reach the study, and Mycroft pulls the heavy wooden door firmly shut behind them before rounding on Sherlock, who is hovering by the fireplace, looking surprisingly innocent. Mycroft strides over to stand before him, and calculates his approach.

Should be be sympathetic? Caring? Compassionate? Or would Sherlock be more likely to accept his help if he were stern and protective, unyielding in his resolve to extricate Sherlock from the latest prison of his own making? 

Sherlock’s eyes look disarmingly soft in the firelight. Mycroft’s heart breaks for him. He’s already been through so much, and now this...

Compassion it is, then.

“Sherlock, what’s that on your wrist?” Mycroft keeps his tone level and as warm as he can muster.

Sherlock holds his arm up and twists his hand to look at it. “Cufflinks?”

“You don’t wear cufflinks.”

“But these were a gift from John. They’re shaped like bees, see?” He holds out his forearm for Mycroft to assess, and Mycroft takes the opportunity to gently grasp his elbow before pulling up the sleeve of his suit jacket and shirt.

All the air seems to leave the room.

There’s nothing, now. No sound except for the dim crackling of the fire in the fireplace, the ticking of the grandfather clock by the wall, the muted hum of the partygoers’ babble, seemingly emanating from another universe, somewhere far beyond the reality that is crashing down all around them inside this room.

There’s just Sherlock, and Mycroft, and a dark purple bruise.

Sherlock swallows loudly. He’s blinking rapidly, his brain clearly having skittered offline during this revelation, and Mycroft patiently waits for him to get his bearings.

It doesn’t take more than a moment. The next, he’s snatching his arm away and tugging his sleeve down desperately, as though hiding the bruise would somehow erase the reality of what Mycroft has just witnessed.

“That’s… that’s nothing. There was… an altercation with a suspect at the conclusion of my last case. The perp tried to make an escape before the police arrived, and I was forced to subdue him myself.”

Mycroft steels himself internally. He _hates_ it when Sherlock tries to lie to him; it’s pathetic. 

“Surely you must know I read the police reports from all of your cases, and I know for a fact that your last case concluded with a pursuit but no altercation. The perp came in willingly once cornered. Do not _lie_ to me, brother mine. Not about this. _Not about this.”_

Sherlock swallows again, and takes a step backwards. His eyes have gone skittish, and Mycroft nearly suspects he’s about to sprint towards the door when it swings open, and none other than John Watson pokes his head inside.

“Everything alright in here?” John’s face is warm and cheerful.

Such a clever little facade for such an _evil fucking man._ Mycroft is going to kill him. Painfully. The audacity he must have, to lay his hands on his brother and think he could get away with it, dear God, Mycroft is going to make this man _pay dearly, with everything he has._

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft plasters on his most appeasing smile. “Do come in, and close the door behind you. Sherlock and I were just having a little chat about a problem we’ve encountered.”

John looks mystified as he obliges, and Sherlock of course chooses that moment to speak up.

“Fuck off, Mycroft, this is none of your business.”

Mycroft can’t help but laugh. “Oh, I daresay this is _entirely_ my business, Sherlock. You know how it _pains_ me to see the situations you get yourself into.”

“Fuck you. You have _no idea_ what pain is.”

Mycroft is wholly alarmed to see tears have welled up in Sherlock’s eyes. The situation was clearly more dire than he’d even imagined.

John arrives at Sherlock’s side and wraps an arm protectively around Sherlock’s waist. Mycroft fights the urge to shove him bodily away; the sight of him touching Sherlock with that _innocent_ expression of bewilderment on his face makes Mycroft feel sick to his stomach, and for once it’s nothing to do with the number of mince pies he’d nibbled during cocktail hour.

He swiftly assesses the current situation, and concludes that the easiest resolution would be to get a rise out of John; to let him show his true colours, and force him to admit what he’d done. He knows for serial abusers, _pride_ and _possessiveness_ have a tendency to become nastily intertwined in their relationships; he internally berates himself for giving John the benefit of the doubt, look at his _family history,_ for God’s sake…

Mycroft focuses his assault, and offers the bait.

“I don’t know what pain is, Sherlock? I endured years of stories about you being passed around the House of Lords like a common rentboy, and that _pained_ me quite a lot, indeed. You clearly can’t be left to your own judgement when it comes to your… relationships.”

He fully expects John to take a swing at him, or at least interject on Sherlock’s behalf, but to Mycroft’s astonishment, John does nothing. His expression is placid, and he makes no move to release his grasp of Sherlock’s waist; was it possible that John already knew about Sherlock’s sordid past?

Surprising. Surprising indeed. It seems Sherlock had taken it upon himself to be honest, for once in his life.

Mycroft recalibrates and refocuses his approach. 

“That said, I must insist that you cease your affiliation with Doctor Watson here immediately.”

Sherlock scoffs, for once looking like his usual petulant self. “You know that’s never going to happen.”

Mycroft sighs. “Very well. Then I’ll have no choice but to cut off your trust fund.”

Sherlock appears flabbergasted. “But… you can’t… you can’t do that!”

“You know that I very well can.”

“But this isn’t… I’m not _using,_ Mycroft, for God’s sake, use your eyes, even _you_ aren’t stupid enough to think that!”

“True, but the guidelines stipulate that engaging in any kind of behaviour that I categorise as reckless is grounds for--”

“I’m sorry, but would someone here mind telling me what the _hell_ is going on?” John looks… not irate, but certainly irritated, and Mycroft internally gloats at finally getting something of a rise out of him.

Sherlock is quick to interject. “Don’t mind him, John. If he cuts off the funds, we’ll figure something out. I’ll take more private clients, even the ones below a Six, and we can work out the childcare--”

“Sherlock, for God’s sake, I’m not worried about the money right now, I’m worried about what the hell you two are bloody arguing about!”

“Why, Doctor Watson, I’m so glad you’ve brought us to that point. I’m thinking perhaps you might be just the man to shed some light on the situation! You see, I’m quite concerned about the state of my brother’s wrist.”

John’s gaze grows cold. “I’m sorry?”

“His _wrist,_ Doctor Watson. You’re a medical man yourself, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a look at it?”

“Mycroft, _stop.”_ The fire has gone out of Sherlock’s eyes, and he looks suddenly timid. Mycroft’s heart twists in his chest; how could Sherlock have let John Watson reduce him to this?

John shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with his wrist, Mycroft.”

“Oh really? Then you won’t mind if I take a look?” He holds out his hand expectantly.

Sherlock initially shies away, but then his eyes lock with John’s, and something unspoken passes between them. Finally, John gives him a curt nod.

Sherlock’s voice is steady when he speaks. “Fine, Mycroft. Have it your way. But all I’ll ask is that you react not to what you _see,_ but instead to what you _observe._ You’d ask no less from me.” And with that, he unbuttons his cufflink and pushes up his shirt and suit sleeve above his elbow, before repeating the process on the other side. Then he holds his battered forearms before him in a gesture of supplication, his gaze level and unashamed.

And Mycroft finally _sees._

It’s a long time before he’s able to speak.

_“Kinbaku._ Ancient Japanese bondage technique. In this case, performed with… jute rope, half an inch thick, in the classic _maete hiji shibari_ pattern.”

His eyes snap up from the dizzying array of bruises to meet Sherlock’s, whose lip is quirking into something resembling an amused smile. “Don’t be alarmed, Mycroft. It’s to do with sex.”

A sensation somewhat akin to _humiliation_ is causing the skin at Mycroft’s neckline to overheat uncomfortably, and he mentally struggles to switch gears to assess the situation at hand.

“So are we done?” John Watson’s voice is overly light and airy, clearly attempting to diffuse the situation. 

But Mycroft is nowhere near ready to be done.

Because _of course_ he’s glad that Sherlock isn’t being battered. _Of course_ he’s relieved.

But this… this is so much darker. So much more dangerous. So much more than Sherlock is capable of handling responsibly.

Mycroft needs to get him _out. This is unacceptable._

He adjusts his face to his most placating expression, and smiles admonishingly down at John. 

“Done? My dear Doctor, I’m afraid we’ve just started.”

“On the contrary, Mycroft, we’re finished here. Now you know. This is something we enjoy recreationally, and it’s completely consensual. It’s perfectly healthy, and it’s really none of your concern.” John is keeping his tone measured, conversational and pleasant, disguising what Mycroft can summarily conclude is a hint of warning veiled beneath it.

Mycroft narrows his eyes appraisingly. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. My brother enjoys a great many things recreationally, and none of them could be considered perfectly healthy.”

“Well, yes, but this particular one keeps him away from all that.” John looks immeasurably smug. As though _he_ were the brilliant one who solved all of Sherlock’s problems.

Damn this conceited bastard to hell, he _caused_ them. 

Mycroft stops holding back. “Indeed But what happens when you aren’t there to provide Sherlock with this… recreation, hmm? Perhaps your memory’s short, allow me to refresh it for you: You left him and married another woman and started a family with her; three weeks later, he turned up in a flophouse. He sacrificed his freedom for your newly-formed family, and then overdosed on the plane en route to exile. You shut him out of your life after the death of your wife, and the next thing we know, he’s in the midst of a full-blown bender, picking fights with a serial killer on national television.”

“That was different, that was--”

“Are you detecting a pattern emerging here, Doctor Watson, or do you need me to spell it out for you? My brother has developed a crippling dependency on your presence, so it stands to reason that I have some concerns about the fact that the two of you are currently engaging in BDSM activities as a part of your ‘recreation.’ The power in this scenario seems a bit _imbalanced,_ if I may be so bold.” He and John are nearly nose-to-nose, and Mycroft can see fire in John’s eyes.

“You may not.” They both start, the exchange between them having grown so heated that Sherlock’s voice seems to appear out of nowhere, wrenching them back to reality. 

Sherlock’s face seems blank, his expression unreadable for once. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again.

“Mycroft, over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to your meddling. And despite my most sincere protestations, you have persisted in your quest to control my life with the same degree of devoted precision with which you control the lives of your minions. And for a long time, I resented you for it.” 

He pauses and takes a deep breath, seeming to fortify himself before continuing. “But I’ve come to see more clearly in recent years, and I know now that you sought that control not out of malevolence, but out of concern. And while your methods may not have always been orthodox, and while they may have caused me immeasurable pain, I know now that they were born of the purest of intentions.”

Mycroft is so taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden bout of clarity that he can scarcely formulate a response. “Well, yes, precisely. So glad you’ve learned to see it my way, at last.” 

Sherlock nods. “And for that, I am grateful, for whatever it’s worth.” John’s eyebrows are so high on his forehead that they seem to have disappeared into his hairline. 

Finally, Sherlock continues. “But that said: You will listen to me now, because I will only say this once, and I will never say it again. After this point, if you broach the subject, I’ll consider it a call to sever all ties between us.”

“And what subject is that?”

“The subject of John Watson. I will not stand before you and justify our relationship to you. I will not have you call into question my commitment to him, or to our daughter. I will not tolerate your skepticism of his motives, and I will not have you pry into the nature of our physical relationship. What we have between us is for us, and us alone. All you need to know is this: When I tell you that John Watson is a good man, when I tell you that he does not hurt me, when I tell you that he saves me in every conceivable way, that is the purest, most humbling truth I know. And tonight I am laying it bare at your feet. What you deduce from this truth is up to you, but you must know this: My terms are non-negotiable. It ends here and now. You may question every other choice I make in my life, but you may never, ever question John Watson again.”

By the time Mycroft has gathered his thoughts, Sherlock and John are gone. Mycroft catches a glimpse of them ascending the staircase as he exits the study, John’s arm still wrapped resolutely around Sherlock’s waist as Sherlock leans over to whisper something in his ear, drawing a smile and a nod from the Doctor. 

He lets them go.

As much as he wants to erase the entire incident from his mind and return to the merry mingling, he finds himself sitting sullenly in an armchair by the grand fireplace, sipping a brandy as he mulls over the evidence.

Because as much as it pains him to admit, throughout Sherlock’s life, Mycroft has made… Miscalculations. He’s jumped to conclusions too quickly, or perhaps intervened too indelicately. He’s interfered too much at times, and others, not enough. Despite his best intentions, when it comes to Sherlock, he can never get it quite right. 

_There’s always something._

He’d been the first to find Sherlock when he’d overdosed following Alice’s death, and he’d spearheaded the initiative to get him into rehab, despite Mummy’s protestations. He’d been the one to try and give him _space_ once Sherlock returned to Uni, only to watch him throw it away all over again, culminating in that humiliating incident with the blasted _gardener._

He’d been embarrassingly hopeful when he’d received word that Sherlock had joined a respectable gentleman's club (albeit, a club for those with _alternative_ sexual tastes, but Mycroft would never judge him for that), believing that perhaps Sherlock was finally seeing the benefits of behaving properly and taking his rightful place in the upper echelons of society. He can recall the bitterness of his disappointment when Sherlock fell off the wagon yet again, and he can still feel the burn of his blows as Mycroft physically forced him into yet another facility. 

And then there were the darkest times, when Mycroft had turned a blind eye to Sherlock’s actions (whether out of a misguided sense of benevolence or out of self-preservation, he can never quite admit). Of course he’d heard the stories about what Sherlock was up to behind closed doors within the chambers of power. But he’d tried to ignore it, until it came back to bite him, in the form of his brother’s bloodied body on a dingy government office floor, calling out for him, hopeless and lost.

He’d worried the next round of rehab wouldn’t stick.

And so after that… After that came Victor, which was perhaps Mycroft’s most egregious miscalculation of all.

Because he knows now in hindsight what that betrayal did to Sherlock. Whatever fragile bond they’d been working to forge over the years had been irrevocably shattered by the incident, and that is what Mycroft regrets most of all. Since then, it had been nothing but tension bordering on outright hostility between the two of them, and it seems there was no going back.

But Mycroft hadn’t placed Victor squarely in Sherlock’s path out of malevolence or cunning or even a desire for control. He simply knew that Sherlock couldn’t be trusted to make his own choices when it came to men, so steering him towards Victor was meant to be a _mercy,_ not an admonishment. And Victor had been so perfect; he’d kept Sherlock clean, sober, and happy, for the first time Mycroft could recall. It had been the perfect solution.

And then it all came crashing down.

He’ll never forget the night he received the call notifying him that Sherlock had overdosed in Miami. He was duly informed that there was a decent chance he wouldn’t pull through, and Mycroft had stayed up the whole night, pacing and sweating and praying to a God he knows doesn’t exist for some sort of miracle, if he could just have _one more chance_ to get it right.

And somehow, his miracle was granted.

And so he’d tried to be cautious. He’d tried to be _good_ and _helpful_ and _supportive,_ but Christ, those were difficult things for a man of his intellect and in his position of power. It took every ounce of restraint in his body to stand by as Sherlock made mistake after mistake, trusting the wrong people, playing the wrong games, following the wrong path.

But now that path had led them here, to this night.

And Mycroft does not consider himself a sensitive man. But he would have to be blind to miss the way Sherlock looked when he had John at his side. He would have to be cold-hearted indeed to dismiss the words Sherlock had so vehemently uttered those many months ago: “This is family.” _“That’s why he stays.”_ And he would have to be arrogant beyond redemption to dismiss what Sherlock had revealed to him tonight.

So perhaps Mycroft Holmes will never understand John Watson. Perhaps he will never trust him, or even _like_ him. 

But for now, John Watson is the improbable solution to the impossible problem.

And for that, Mycroft will at least _respect_ him.

And perhaps, for once, that will be enough.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: We’re finally about to earn that D/S tag! If power dynamics aren’t your jam, you may want to skip this one and simply conclude with Chapter 6.
> 
> Please note: Although I’ve tagged “breathplay” in this series before, this chapter contains a much more intense exploration of this activity. Please keep in mind that John is a medical professional and has extensive knowledge about the limits of the human body, and he is monitoring the situation closely using that knowledge. Breathplay can be quite dangerous if not performed correctly under appropriate circumstances, so the fact that John is a doctor and controlling their play accordingly is essential to remember here.

336\. There are 336 individual _minha-khani_ woven into the antique rug on the floor of of his bedroom at the Lyttelton Estate.

The rug was over 200 years old, an authentic antique like nearly everything else at the house, no doubt plundered on some colonial conquest long since forgotten in the sands of time.

The rug had been there for as long as Sherlock could remember, and even in his early childhood, he could recall tracing the patterns with his fingers while his _boring_ cousin Matthew attempted to engage him in some mundane activity, like assembling an electric train track, or erecting a spaceship out of colourful plastic blocks whose proper name he’s long since deleted.

Yet strangely, tonight is the first time Sherlock has properly analysed it.

336.

The pattern is uneven. 

He’d never noticed it until now. Whether out of oversight or intention, at some point the rugmaker had neglected to alternate the minha-khani and the herati design, and put two herati in a row. 

So there were 336 _minha-khani_ and 338 _herati._

Imbalanced.

Strange.

“Sherlock?”

The sound of a voice in his ear and the sensation of a palm on his shoulder startles him, and he jumps, his eyes blinking rapidly as they adjust from the mesmerising shapes on the carpet to take in the soft expression on John’s face, inches from his.

“I brought you some water. You still with me?”

“Mmm. Yes, John. Thank you.” He reaches for the glass and takes a sip, trying to focus on the _mindfulness_ of the act. The taste of the water. The way his epiglottis involuntarily shifts to direct the water safely away from his lungs, the sensation of the cool liquid as it makes its way down his esophagus. Brilliant, really. Marvelous engineering.

He focuses on staying in the moment.

Because sometimes, when he’s confronted with demons from his past, he’s been known to slip away into his Mind Palace, to retreat somewhere else for a while.

Sherlock doesn’t mind it. It’s safe, and comforting.

John doesn’t like it. It scares him. So he’s asked Sherlock to stay with him, instead.

And so Sherlock is trying.

“There’s a mistake on the rug.”

John blinks back at him, the hint of an amused smile turning up the corners of his lips. “Sorry?”

“The rug. There are 336 _minha-khani_ and 338 _herati.”_

“I’ve… Sherlock, honestly, I’ve no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“They’re basic Persian rug motifs, John, do keep up. And there’s a mistake on the rug. They doubled up, see, just there? I’ve never noticed until now.”

John gazes down at where Sherlock is pointing, and his eyebrow quirks up in recognition. “I see.”

He looks back up to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock suddenly doesn’t know what to say.

His throat feels dry despite the water, and he’s strangely cold. The reality of what’s just transpired with Mycroft downstairs makes him feel naked and vulnerable. But unlike other times when Mycroft has exposed his secrets, Sherlock doesn’t feel like he’s about to shake apart with violent indignation. Instead, he just feels… still. Like he might disappear at any moment, as though he never existed at all.

But how is he supposed to communicate that to _John?_

But then John’s palm is cupping the side of his face, his warm thumb tracing over Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut, and he leans into the touch. He feels so lost right now, and the sensation of John’s fingers against his skin is the only thing tethering him to the present.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes. Mercifully, John continues to cradle his cheek.

“What can I do?”

Sherlock swallows, and focuses on breathing. Three counts in, three out.

Finally, he opens his eyes and shrugs. He knows what he needs, but John had already made it plenty clear earlier that afternoon that he wasn’t going to give it to him here.

“Do you need to _unwind?”_

A hot rush of adrenaline and endorphins floods Sherlock’s bloodstream the moment he hears the word cross John’s lips. Involuntarily, his back straightens and he blinks back imploringly back at John.

“But you said earlier…”

“I know what I said earlier, Sherlock, but that was before… before all this. And I remember you said after… after the incident with Victor Trevor, that sometimes when you’re forced to confront your past, _unwinding_ can help you… let go.”

Sherlock nods.

“And I… Christ, Sherlock, how do I say this? The things Mycroft said about me tonight, the things I did, back before… before we worked things out… I…” John trails off, and Sherlock notes that his eyes seem wet and bleary. “I left you when you needed me. And that’s never going to happen again. _Not ever._ Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods again, more slowly this time. He _wants,_ oh God, he _wants_ , but he also doesn’t want to overstep, take more than John is offering…

“I’m glad you’re staying here with me instead of running off to your Mind Palace. And if you’d like to _unwind_ with me tonight, I’d very much enjoy that. We can be here, together. Just tell me what you need.”

Sherlock heaves a ragged sigh of relief so deep that the sensation of the tension leaving his muscles is visceral. _“Please,_ John. Please.”

John gives him his most comforting smile and takes Sherlock’s hands reassuringly in his own. “Alright, sweetheart. I’m going to place some ground rules first, just to keep this safe, since we’re in an unfamiliar location, not to mention that we just did this a few days ago and you still haven’t quite healed, okay?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright. First, no bondage tonight; you’re still too bruised up.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John cuts him off. “I’ll order you to stay in certain positions, but it will be up to you to be good for me and comply; I’m not going to force you tonight. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Second, I need you to promise me you’ll be quiet.” Sherlock purses his lips, but John simply glares levelly back at him. “Listen, you know how much I love it when you’re noisy, sweetheart. But this is a very full house, and--”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I know, I know, we need to be _polite.”_

John gives a half-hearted shrug. “That, and I like having your pleasure all to myself. I’m a bit possessive like that, and I don’t like the idea of anyone else hearing those gorgeous sounds you make. Those are just for me, aren’t they?”

_Christ,_ John always knows just what to say. At the mere _mention_ of John’s possessive streak, Sherlock’s already half-hard, a shiver running up his spine.

“Yes, John. Those are just for you.”

“Alright, then. We agree.” He beams at Sherlock, and Sherlock feels suddenly warm all over. “So, sweetheart. What level do you want tonight?”

He and John had recently negotiated a system of levels for their sessions, each with a corresponding level of aftercare. Sherlock knows what he wants tonight, but a part of him is perplexed as to whether John can give it to him; with the parameters he’s just set, would it even be possible? Sherlock decides to push his luck.

“Level 3, please.”

A pleasantly surprised expression flits across John’s face, but he doesn’t flinch. “Okay, love.” He licks his lips. “Do you… do you remember what we negotiated a few weeks ago, as part of your… reward for agreeing to come to the gala?”

Sherlock’s heart rate increases exponentially. He’s fairly certain he knows what John is getting at.

“Yes, John.”

“And is that still something you want?”

“Yes, please, John.”

“Alright.” 

And with that, John rises to his feet. His expression changes so swiftly it’s eerie; when John was sitting beside him on the bed, his expression had been soft, warm, understanding, and kind. But in the span of an instant it turns cold and calculating, and Sherlock stiffens under his commanding gaze.

John takes a few steps backwards, his eyes locked into Sherlock’s.

Sherlock slides off the bed onto his knees.

John stares down at him appraisingly. He’s never explicitly established that he wants Sherlock on his knees at the beginning of every session, but it seems to be something that’s simply started _happening,_ as of late. The moment their session starts, Sherlock wants nothing more than to be the on the ground in a position of supplication, and he’s begun to indulge in the urge. Luckily, John doesn’t seem to mind.

He eyes Sherlock up and down, his expression unreadable. Sherlock can see the beginnings of his erection starting to tent the front of his trousers, and Sherlock’s cock twitches in earnest sympathy.

Finally, John gives him a curt nod. “Stay.”

With that, he turns and makes his way over to his suitcase and retrieves a bottle of lube, which he places deliberately on the nightstand (a thrill shoots up Sherlock’s spine knowing that John had clearly not, in fact, been fully committed to maintaining their celibacy during their stay). Then John meanders over to stand before Sherlock, hovering over him as Sherlock trembles in anticipation.

Slowly, as if underwater, John reaches forward, grabs a handful of Sherlock’s hair, and _pulls._

Sherlock lets out an agitated hiss before he can stop himself. John knows that his hair follicles are extremely sensitive and yet somehow, confusingly, seemingly connected straight to his cock. John grins down at him as Sherlock’s eyes begin to water, his erection rising to full mast until it’s straining uncomfortably against his pants.

“Beautiful, sweetheart. You look so lovely on your knees like this. Are you going to be good for me tonight?”

Sherlock knows why John is asking. Because sometimes, Sherlock doesn’t _want_ to be good; sometimes he wants to fight and scrap and struggle until John _forces_ him down, and while the resulting sex is incredible, it’s loud and often violent-- the opposite of what they’ve negotiated for tonight.

Luckily, that’s not the kind of session he wants right now. He wants the kind of session where he surrenders his body to John’s every whim and John uses him until he’s wrung-out and sated and shaking with relief. That’s the kind of session he gets when he’s _good._ John is simply checking in with him, confirming that they’re on the same page.

“Yes, John. I’ll be good for you.”

“Fantastic. You’re brilliant, incredible, amazing. Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’ve decided to be good.” Sherlock shivers as he basks in John’s praise, and John’s eyes twinkle warmly in contrast with the dispassionate expression on his face.

John reaches down with the hand not currently tangled in Sherlock’s curls, and unfastens his trousers to pull out his cock. Sherlock opens his mouth instinctively.

“Lovely.” And with that, John pushes himself inside.

He sets a slow pace to begin with, allowing Sherlock time to adjust to the increasing depth of each thrust. His fingers remain resolutely twisted in Sherlock’s hair, holding his head firmly in place as he fucks into his mouth. Sherlock breathes deeply through his nose and relaxes his throat, commanding his transport to surrender to John’s will.

In no time, the tip of John’s cock slips past Sherlock’s mouth to press down his throat, and Sherlock moans approvingly. John issues a low hum as Sherlock swallows greedily around his length, suppressing his gag reflex to deepthroat John enthusiastically.

And then, an unfamiliar sensation in this situation: John’s free hand against Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock initially tenses, and John pauses before withdrawing his cock slightly. 

“Easy there, love. You alright? Snap twice if you’re okay to keep going.”

Sherlock snaps twice as quickly as possible. He has no qualms about what John is doing; Sherlock’s transport had simply reacted with animalistic instinct to a perceived threat. This is one of the parts of _unwinding_ that he adores most; the complete mastery of his transport, transforming it and molding it to John’s will. He focuses his attention on maintaining his breath through his nose, and sighs deeply as John places his hand back around his throat once more and begins to lightly squeeze. Then he presses his cock so far into Sherlock’s mouth that Sherlock’s nose is pressed against John’s pubis.

They carry on like that for quite some time, John alternating between light, shallow movements and deep, tear-inducing thrusts, all while applying light pressure to Sherlock’s throat with one hand and keeping his head held firmly in place with the other.

Sherlock is in _heaven._ The combination of sensations-- from the pleasant weight of John’s cock on his tongue to the reassuring grip of John’s hand in his hair to the wanton sensation of saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth-- is so potent that he can feel himself starting to drift already.

He’s spent a considerable amount of mental energy categorising the sensation of the _drifts_ he experiences when he and John unwind. He’s concluded that it’s essentially the complete opposite of an out-of-body experience: Instead of escaping his transport, he becomes so fully _present_ in it that he can process little else besides the corporeal ecstasy consuming him. His Mind Palace goes dark and his brain is peaceful and he feels so wholly, utterly _human_ it’s all but overwhelming. He becomes completely immersed in his own body, his consciousness slipping away until he is nothing more than a collection of cells, electrified with pleasure and drowning in desire.

Suddenly, John pulls his cock away entirely, and Sherlock lets out an involuntary whimper at the loss. But before he can protest further, the hand around his throat is tightening, restricting his air supply instead of simply applying light pressure as it had been before before, and he rasps out an aborted gasp. John’s other hand abandons Sherlock’s locks and closes around his own cock, which he begins to jerk rapidly.

Sherlock issues a garbled grunt as he fights the sensation to struggle; he wants to be good for John, but his body is processing nothing but danger. He’s so consumed by the overwhelming sensation of choking that he barely registers it as John starts to come.

John paints his face with hot streaks, his fingers closing tighter still around Sherlock’s compressed larynx as he spends himself completely. Sherlock has the presence of mind to close his eyes, but he notes with satisfaction that he’s at least remembered to keep his mouth open; a few shots of John’s release land on his tongue, and the familiar salty taste anchors him in the moment.

As quickly as it had appeared, the pressure on his throat is gone, and John is stepping away from him, tucking his spent cock into his trousers as Sherlock slumps back onto his heels, gasping and blinking blearily. He has a head rush from the sudden influx of oxygen, and he sways precariously as John eyes him appraisingly. 

Seemingly satisfied, John steps forward to grab onto Sherlock’s hair once more with one hand, then proceeds to swipe his free fingers through the come on Sherlock’s face before holding them up to his mouth. Sherlock licks each one greedily.

John repeats the process until Sherlock’s face is passably clean, Sherlock eagerly sucking on each fingerful with enthusiastic aplomb, delighting in the way John’s pupils dilate so _gorgeously_ as he watches Sherlock consume his release, a doting smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Alright, love. That was beautiful.” John releases Sherlock’s hair and steps back. Sherlock fights the urge to reach out for him and pull him back close; he needs to wait for John’s instructions now.

“Can you stand?”

Sherlock takes a quick inventory of his transport. “Yes, John.”

“Good. Get up.”

Sherlock rises to his feet and absent-mindedly raises the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, but stops himself at the last second; he knows John likes to see him debauched after taking him, and he quickly snaps his arm back down to his side. John clearly notices, and gives him a smile.

“Well done, sweetheart. You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, John.”

“Ready for more?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Alright. Take off your clothes. Put them away properly, I don’t want you making a mess of the room. I’ll watch.”

Sherlock strips slowly, deliberately, taking care to keep his eyes downcast and demure. He glances up only occasionally to read the expression on John’s face, but John is relentless; when he’s dominating Sherlock like this, his face (normally so expressive, an open book for Sherlock to peruse) becomes set and unyielding. Sherlock wants so _badly_ to please him, but John won’t let him off so easily; he’ll have to work for it.

He does register a fractional widening of John’s eyes as Sherlock removes his shirt, baring his still-healing bruises in the cool air of the bedroom. The results of the _kinbaku_ were completely stunning and far exceeded Sherlock’s wildest expectations; the resulting marks were delicate and beautiful and hypnotically symmetrical, like an intricate work of art painted across his skin. They make him feel gorgeous, wild and _claimed._ He can only hope John feels the same.

Finally, he removes the last of his clothing and turns to face John, awaiting instructions. His erection throbs obscenely in front of him, but he’s so far gone he can’t be arsed to be embarrassed by his eagerness.

John’s gaze rakes over him, hovering only momentarily on his cock before making its way up to his face.

“Good. Take the duvet off the bed, and fold it before you place it on the floor.”

Sherlock scrambles to comply.

“Take all the pillows off, too.”

Sherlock stacks them diligently on the floor by the duvet before standing back to attention.

“Lie down on the bed. Face up. Hands beside your head.”

Sherlock assumes the position without hesitation.

John approaches the bed achingly slowly, his footsteps muffled by the plush cushion of the rug. He paces the perimeter of the bed, not speaking, just looking, taking in Sherlock’s supine form with an unreadable expression on his face. Sherlock can feel a desperate whine rising in his own throat.

Luckily, before Sherlock is reduced to begging, John comes to a stop standing by Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock turns his face to stare imploringly up at him.

After what feels like an interminable silence, John speaks.

“Alright, sweetheart. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to have you touch yourself now. But when I say ‘stop,’ I want your hands back in this position beside your head, do you understand?”

“Yes, John.”

“You’re not to come without permission, is that clear?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Touch your nipples.”

As if on autopilot, Sherlock brings his fingers to the tender nubs on his chest, and begins to rub them hesitantly. His actions feel strangely clumsy under John’s gaze, and he’s suddenly self-conscious.

“No, love, not like that. I want you to make yourself feel good. Touch your nipples the way you want them touched, the way _I_ would do it, yeah?”

Sherlock nods frantically and switches up his approach. He conjures up dozens of blissful memories of the way John stimulates his nipples; flicking them, pinching them, twisting them as he digs his fingernails into the sensitive flesh before plucking them playfully, sending Sherlock spiraling into a dizzying spin of pleasure. And then there’d been that time John had made Sherlock come from nipple stimulation _alone,_ and he’d--

“Oh, _yes,_ love, beautiful, perfect! Just like that. Yeah, lick your fingertips, get them a little wet, then pinch yourself, yes, good, brilliant! Oh, sweetheart, that’s amazing. Does it feel good?”

Sherlock lets out a high pitched whine and his legs begin to part on their own accord as his cock pulses out a wet drop of precome onto his trembling abdomen. Christ, he was getting close already, and John’s barely started with him….

“Back off a bit now, just trace your areolas, very lightly, just with your fingertips. Oh, good, perfect, your nipples look so hard, love! Do they feel nice?”

Sherlock swallows wetly as he spreads his legs further. “Yes, John.”

“Good. Now pinch them, hard, use your fingernails and give them a little twist, just the way you like it. _Yes,_ love, _yes,_ keep doing that, don’t stop…”

Sherlock keens helplessly. It feels as though his chest is on fire with the sensation and it’s spreading straight to his groin. He thinks about how wanton he must look, splayed out on the bed, naked and hard as John hovers above him, fully clothed and in command. He must look obscene, with his bruises and his spread legs and his peaked nipples and--

“Stop.”

Sherlock’s hands fly back to their position by his head, and he heaves a shuddering gasp, his back arching off the bed with the sudden loss of contact.

“Ooooh, _good,_ sweetheart. _Very_ good. Be still, now, don’t move.”

Sherlock tries his hardest, truly he does, but he realises with mortification that he’s literally _trembling_ with desire. He wants John to touch him, he wants John to touch him _so badly,_ but no, he has to wait, he has to be good until John is ready to take him…

“Shhhh, it’s alright. I know you’re shaking, and that’s okay. I don’t mind. You stopped when I told you to, and that’s all that matters. That means so much to me, love.”

Sherlock all but melts into the bed with the warmth of John’s praise. He soon feels relaxed and considerably more comfortable, the crest of pleasure receding from where it had been threatening to overtake him. He re-focuses his attention on remaining calm and in control of his transport, using it only under John’s command.

“Good, sweetheart. Now I want you to touch your cock.”

Sherlock lets out an indignant whimper, and John’s gaze narrows, his eyes locked into Sherlock’s.

“Come on, love. You can do it, I know you can.” His tone is flat, with a hint of warning.

Sherlock knows he can, but he’s not completely certain he can do so without coming. He’s been achingly hard since John got him on his knees, and he feels that at this point, a light breeze may set him off.

“Sweetheart.” John’s voice is low and rough, and Sherlock lets out a full-body shiver. “Are my instructions confusing you?”

“No, John.”

“I want to watch you touch your cock. Do it. Now.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and wraps his hand around his rock-hard cock.

The first stroke is so exquisite he bows of the bed in ecstasy, his muscles clenching and his breath trapped in his lungs as he struggles to maintain control. He grits his teeth and digs his heels into the top of the mattress, willing himself not to ejaculate. His free hand clings to the sheets, which he twists into his fingers desperately.

And there, there’s something to think about-- the sheets. The ones that had been on this bed during his childhood had been Pratesi: luxury Egyptian cotton, high thread count, standard for an estate like this. But now they’re bamboo, favoured only for its hypoallergenic properties. Who had been staying in this room these past years that had required the switch? Surely no one in the immediate family had--

_“Yes, gorgeous,_ sweetheart, so good. You’re so good for me. Christ, your cock looks gorgeous tonight, I can’t wait until I get to see you come. Do you want that?”

Sherlock is riveted back to the situation at hand (quite literally). He’s pleased to note that the momentary distraction of the sheets had resulted in a considerably lessened urge to come, and he’s now stroking himself with collected confidence. He opens his eyes to see John watching him hungrily, his gaze locked on where Sherlock is working himself over as he licks his lips absentmindedly.

“Yes, John. Please.”

“Alright, love. We’ll get there soon enough. For now, keep stroking your cock, but use your other hand to fondle your balls and press your perineum, just like you do when you get yourself off.”

Sherlock nods resolutely and complies. 

It’s intense. Watching John watch him as he engages in so intimate an act is endlessly arousing, and he finds he can’t help but put on a bit of a show; arching his back, elongating his neck the way he knows drives John wild, moaning quietly in the deep baritone that John so adores (though not too loudly so as to break the rules of their agreement), staring up at John in the intense way that John always says makes him feel laid bare. Before too long, he’s spread his legs so far that he’s pulling his thighs back to his chest, the mere act of _imagining_ John penetrating him enough to send jolts of arousal up his spine. 

His breath is coming in light gasps between the moans, and he can feel himself starting to sweat. His balls are drawing up in preparation for release, but he doesn’t dare stop stroking or let up on the pressure on his perineum; that would disappoint John, and the one thing he _must not do_ is disappoint John. After all, John is in control here. John knows his body, and John will not let him fail.

Sure enough, the moment Sherlock is certain he’s about to barrel past the point of no return, John’s voice rings out, quiet but clear.

“Stop.”

Sherlock’s hands fly back to their position beside his head, and he lets out a short sob as the sharp prickles of a release denied radiate from his tender cock and groin. The sensation is less than pleasant, but Sherlock doesn’t mind it; it’s the evidence of John’s mastery over him.

He lies quivering on the bed, his cock throbbing angrily between his legs, agonized whimpers escaping from his lips as his body reluctantly comes to terms with the reality of what John wants it to endure.

At last, John speaks. “Oh, beautiful, love. That was lovely. We’ll go one more time, then you’ll get your reward, yeah?”

“Yes, please.”

As fantastic as the edging is (and Christ, it feels _marvelous_ tonight), he’s eager to get on to the main event. The act John has offered to engage in tonight has been at the top of Sherlock’s list for awhile, but John had been reluctant to take negotiations on that front further until recently, for reasons which Sherlock hasn’t entirely sussed out. All Sherlock knows is that he’d used it as a bargaining chip when John had pleaded with him to attend the gala, and to his surprise, John had acquiesced. John still made Sherlock endure an obscenely dull round of negotiations about it last week, but in the end, he supposed it would be worth it for the payout.

“Okay, then. Spread your legs with your thighs against your chest, like you had them before, yes, just like that, Christ, can’t wait to fuck you tonight, sweetheart.” John walks slowly further towards the foot of the bed to gain a better view of Sherlock’s exposed hole. “Now lick your hand before you touch your cock. Stroke yourself. Yes, good. Now suck the fingers of your left hand, just like that, perfect. Get them nice and wet. Touch your hole, but don’t penetrate yourself; that part’s just for me. I just want you to think about how good it’s going to feel when I’m finally inside you.”

Sherlock complies, and oh God, it’s _perfect._ He’s shaking from head to toe just thinking about how good it will feel to have John inside of him, claiming him. He fingers the area around his hole, wetting it, making it as appealing for John as possible. 

From his post beside the bed, John smiles.

That nearly sends Sherlock over the edge. Seeing the way John looks at him in moments like this does something to him that he’ll never be able to describe. All he knows is that the next moment, a flood of molten heat is rushing through him, and once again, he’s dangerously close to coming.

John issues the command just in time. Sherlock’s hands obediently resume their position by his head, but his body is not nearly as willing to surrender this time; he teeters on the brink for what feels like ages, his cock throbbing and his balls pulled tight in that strange way that makes him feel slightly nauseous from the unreleased pressure. He gasps and swears his way through the sensations as the muscles in his abdomen and pelvis flex and release, focusing every ounce of energy he has on maintaining control.

At long last, the urge to come recedes, and he moans helplessly with relief as it passes. He feels jittery and slightly chilled.

Of course John (clever, perfect John) knows just what to do; he beams down at Sherlock and sweeps the sweat-soaked curls off his forehead before planting a luxurious kiss on his gasping lips. The feeling of John’s tongue pressing against his is endlessly grounding: This is his affirmation. He has pleased John, and now John will reward him.

Still smiling, John pulls away and turns to the nightstand, where he grabs the lube before climbing onto the bed to kneel beside Sherlock’s prone form. Sherlock notes that John’s still fully-dressed, and it’s with a thrill that he realises it seems John has every intention of fucking him with all of his clothes still on. The power imbalance in this situation (with John fully clothed and Sherlock completely nude) arouses Sherlock to no end-- not to mention the fact that John is wearing a suit tonight. Christ, this is going to be incredible. He sighs happily at the thought.

“Feeling good, love?”

“Yes, John.”

“Lovely. Going to prep you now, alright, sweetheart?”

“Yes, please, John.

“Alright. Can you hold yourself open for me, just put your hands behind your knees, yes, just like that, beautiful sweetheart.” John clambers to position himself between Sherlock’s spread legs, and Sherlock cranes his neck to watch as John pops the cap off the lube and slicks up two fingers. Smiling wickedly, he guides them to Sherlock’s eager hole.

By now, Sherlock is used to how this part goes. He’s come to expect the quick pressure and then the short burning burst of not-quite-pain, which quickly morphs into an incandescent pleasure unlike anything else he’s ever experienced.

But tonight, something is… different. It’s obvious that John’s trying to disguise his concern, but the wrinkle just above the inside of his left eyebrow suddenly makes an appearance, and Sherlock knows that’s always a sign that John is flummoxed. He’s running his fingers around Sherlock’s opening and pressing just the tip of one finger inside, but the sensation it’s producing is a bit painful, instead of the usual anticipatory pleasure. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably.

“Hmmm. Uh, sweetheart?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock starts to feel a bit panicky. John sounds a little uncertain of himself, which is _extremely_ uncharacteristic for when they’re unwinding; usually he stays in Captain Mode through and through.

“You’re… um, you’re _really_ tight tonight. Is this even feeling good?” He presses the tip of one finger in, and Sherlock all but recoils.

For a split second, Sherlock considers lying. He wants John to fuck him; that’s imperative to the scenario they’ve negotiated for tonight. He’s certain he could just assure John and grit his teeth and fake his way through it, but no, that’s not what this is about. John would be furious at him if Sherlock lied about something as important as that. After all, John is always reminding him that _power exchange_ can’t work without complete and total honesty, no matter how embarrassing it may be.

“Um….no, not really.”

“Okay. I think you may just be really tense from everything going on. So let’s get you relaxed, hmm?”

“Yes, please, John.” He doesn’t know how John is planning on doing that, but he’s willing to try just about anything.

“Alright, hands and knees.” Sherlock sits up blearily and complies as quickly as he can.

“Okay, sweetheart. I just want you to enjoy yourself for a little while now, hmm? You can touch yourself if you want to, but if it means you’re getting too close, you don’t have to. Whatever makes you feel best.”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” And with that, Sherlock feels John’s hands parting his cheeks, followed by the thrilling and utterly wanton sensation of John’s tongue lapping into his crack.

He immediately regrets promising to be quiet. He loves it when John rims him, and he’s been delighted to note that John’s been partaking in this particular act more and more often lately. And with increased practice comes improved results-- John seems to have deduced all the best way to reduce Sherlock to a quivering puddle of _want_ within mere minutes.

Tonight is no exception. John licks and sucks enthusiastically at his hole, focusing not so much on penetration as much as on _preparation,_ swirling his tongue against the furled opening until Sherlock can feel his muscles start to relax under his ministrations. Eventually John begins to employ his fingers as well, again avoiding penetration but instead simply massaging his sensitive rim, willing Sherlock’s body to accept his advances.

Sherlock for his part is out of his mind with pleasure. He rests his head against his forearm on the bed and heaves in ragged breaths as he lightly fondles his cock with his free hand. He doesn’t stroke himself hard enough to induce the desire to come; he simply teases at his hardness, pinching the tip and then petting the shaft before lightly squeezing his balls and then repeating it all over again. Occasionally John’s hand reaches around and his fingers intermingle with Sherlock’s own, feeling the way Sherlock pleasures himself as John works him over from behind with his tongue.

Eventually, however, John’s mouth disappears, and he’s pressing a wet kiss to Sherlock’s sacrum as his fingers tentatively prod Sherlock’s hole once more. The tip of one slips inside, and while it seems to penetrate him more deeply than before, the sensation of pain rears its head almost instantly, and Sherlock clenches instinctively in its wake.

John sighs and withdraws his fingers, then pulls at Sherlock’s hips, signaling him to turn around. Sherlock willingly complies.

John meets his eyes imploringly. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry, but I just don’t think this is going to happen tonight. You’re too tight. It’s not your fault; there’s a lot going on, and please know that I’m not disappointed. I don’t blame you. And I promise, we can try out our new activity some other time, alright?”

Sherlock feels suddenly lost, adrift in a sea without an anchor. John’s words seem to be coming from very far away. “But I want… but I need…”

“I know, love, and we can both still get off, and I can keep dominating you and make you come and it’ll be wonderful, it’ll be…”

But Sherlock can’t hear him over the static in his head. He can’t find the words to convey to John what he’s feeling: He needs John to fuck him tonight, in this room, on this bed. It’s the only way to overwrite all the horrible memories burned into his hard drive that are threatening to flicker back to life the longer this conversation wears on. He wants to… he _needs_ to be had, dominated, owned by the man he loves in the perfect, complete way that only John has ever been able to. It’s imperative.

He forces his brain to begin processing John’s words again. John is still blathering on sheepishly, clearly noting Sherlock’s disapproval in the current turn of events. “... I just don’t know what else to try, love. I mean, even the night I… even the night I took your virginity, you didn’t feel as tight as this, I’m just worried that I’ll hurt you.”

“Rim me some more.” Sherlock’s tone is curt, but he’s quickly losing patience. He’d been in such a lovely, drifting headspace before, and now reality is crashing back through the hazy mist of bliss, and before too long he’s going to start _thinking_ again…

“It’s working to relax your rim, love, but it’s not doing much inside. Maybe if we had the vibrator or something--”

Sherlock’s brain lights up like a switchboard. “We do. Side pocket of my suitcase.”

John’s expression is incredulous. “Are you kidding me? You packed the _vibrator_ for a 36 hour getaway at your _family home?”_

Sherlock stares back unapologetically. “I did. And now aren’t you glad? And here you were accusing me of overpacking.” And with that, Sherlock flops onto his back and spreads his legs, barely aware of the exasperated (yet mildly amused) expression on John’s face as he makes his way over retrieve the toy.

John clambers back onto the bed rather gracelessly, clutching the vibrator in one hand and wearing a bemused expression as he takes in Sherlock’s eagerly submissive posture.

“Alright, then. Sherlock, I’m happy to give this a try, but I need you to _promise me_ you’ll stop be if it’s not feeling good. I won’t be able to gauge anything if I’m not using my fingers, so I’m depending on you to communicate with me and be honest with me. Is that perfectly clear?” His gaze is level and serious, and Sherlock nods solemnly.

“Yes, John. Promise.”

“And if full penetration isn’t in the cards for us tonight, do keep in mind that I’m not letting you off the hook. There are a million ways I can take you apart, sweetheart, and I won’t hesitate to use every last one until I’m satisfied. I’ll be making you mine tonight, one way or another.” His Captain Voice is back, and Sherlock has to tamp down the swell of emotion rising in his chest; God, John is _so good to him._

“Yes, John. I understand.”

“Good.” And with that, John unceremoniously slicks up the vibrator and turns it on.

Sherlock loves the vibrator, almost to an embarrassing extent. He’d received it as a not-so-kind gag gift from the Yarders during their Secret Santa exchange a few years back, and he’d saltily stashed it in his nightstand and refused to use it out of protest-- honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t binned it straight away. But then he and John had started sleeping together, and one night John had found it while he was rummaging around looking for more lube, and the results had been… surprising.

But it’s a love-hate relationship, really. Because yes, sometimes John uses it to pleasure Sherlock, tracing it from his shaft to his perineum and then teasing his rim until Sherlock is all but out of his mind and _begging_ for it, before pressing it inside and stimulating his prostate in that incomparable way that makes Sherlock go off in record time.

But other times, when they’re _unwinding,_ John uses it in a myriad of other ways, all of which produce a reaction from Sherlock unlike anything else. Most often, John uses it to overstimulate him. He’ll prod at Sherlock’s prostate relentlessly, wringing orgasm after orgasm out of him until his pleasure is twisted into a painful ordeal to be endured, not enjoyed. Sometimes John will edge him with it, bringing him to the brink over and over again until Sherlock is sobbing and desperate and paralysed with the consuming frustration of it. Occasionally, John uses it on himself: He’ll tie Sherlock up and make him watch as John pleasures himself, Sherlock grinding his teeth and writhing in the exquisite agony of watching John derive pleasure from something that isn’t him. It drives him nearly out of his mind every damn time.

But tonight, it seems John is simply hellbent on making Sherlock feel _good._ He puts the vibrator on the lightest setting and traces lazy patterns up Sherlock’s cock and over his balls, simply priming him for what’s to come. Sherlock’s body responds with Pavlovian enthusiasm: the mere sound of the hum of the motor gets his cock so hard he begins to leak, and Sherlock would have to be blind to miss the satisfied smirk playing at the corners of John’s mouth as Sherlock whimpers and spreads himself wider, begging John to take him further.

Eventually, John begins to press the toy against Sherlock’s perineum, dialing up the intensity of the vibrations as he simultaneously begins to massage his rim with two slick fingers. Sherlock moans quietly and melts back into the mattress; he can _feel_ himself relaxing under the soothing vibrations, and soon John is slipping the tips of both fingers inside of him easily, without any of the previous pain or tension.

“Oh, that’s it, sweetheart. Lovely. Here’s what I’d like to do. Are you paying attention?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. I’m going try to make you come using the vibrator. I think that will help your muscles relax, and it will make you feel better. Does that sound alright?”

Sherlock blinks up at John blearily. “Yes, but…”

“What is it, love?”

“You’ll still fuck me after, right?”

“Of course, sweetheart, if I can. I think having an orgasm might loosen things up a bit and get you ready to take my cock. Okay?”

Sherlock nods resolutely. “Yes, John.”

“Alright, then. Hands by you head and keep them there. Now, stop me if anything hurts.”

And with that, he begins to press the vibrator into Sherlock’s hole in slow, shallow undulations.

It’s ecstasy. It’s torture. It’s both all at once, and everything in between. Sherlock wants to shout at John to go _faster,_ go _deeper,_ but he knows that would be a fool’s errand; when John is dominating him, anything Sherlock requests, John is sure to do the exact opposite, and threefold, just to remind Sherlock who _exactly_ is in control.

So he endures the oscillating Heaven and Hell as John slowly works the vibrator into him, taking it fractionally deeper with each thrust, but every time pulling it nearly all the way out, leaving Sherlock feeling bereft in its absence.

There’s a point mid-way when Sherlock knows John has encountered some resistance. He holds the vibrator in place and then takes Sherlock’s shaft in his free hand and begins to stroke him, his expression placid and unreadable. Sherlock all but shakes apart under the dual stimulation, and within seconds, he feels the vibrator push pass the resistance and sink in deeper still. John licks his lips in satisfaction as Sherlock arches and keens.

Sherlock closes his eyes, and disappears into the sensation.

Eventually, he hears a light gasp from John. He blinks his eyes open to note that John is nodding in contentment. 

“Oh, _there_ we are. It’s all the way in, love, do you feel it?”

Sherlock’s brain feels muzzy and his words are slurred.

“Yes, John.” He _can_ feel it; the vibrator is seated fully inside of him, the vibrations tantalisingly delicious alongside his prostate. John isn’t stimulating his prostate directly yet; he’s simply letting Sherlock’s body grow accustomed to the depth and stretch before moving on.

“Beautiful. Here’s what’s going to happen now: I’m going to keep prepping you with my fingers, because this toy is quite a bit slimmer than my cock. I want you to relax and enjoy yourself. If you want to come, come. I’m granting you permission. If it gets too intense with either the vibrator or the prep, you tell me and we’ll stop. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good. Now just lie back, love, let me have you.”

And with that, John takes him apart.

Sherlock is so far gone, lost in the consuming pleasure of it all, that he doesn’t really register exactly what’s happening. He’s vaguely aware that John has turned up the vibrator to the highest setting and begun to press it directly against his prostate, sending his arousal skyrocketing as he clenches his hands in their position beside his head. He feels John’s slick fingers stroking his shaft, fondling his balls, then slowly circling his rim, continuing to loosen him as he loses all semblance of control to the sensations overwhelming him. Eventually, he feels John slip a finger in alongside the vibrator.

It’s a stretch. Though the combination of the vibrator and one finger is still less than the girth of John’s cock, the combination of the beautiful burning stretch and the intensity of the vibrations against his prostate is wholly unlike anything he’s experienced before. John begins to gradually drag his finger in and out, massaging Sherlock’s rim with his thumb, all while keeping up the vibrator’s relentless assult of his prostate.

Sherlock’s orgasm feels like it arrives out of nowhere. One moment he’s swimming in a sea of euphoria, delighting in the sensations he’s experiencing but without any real sense of urgency. The next, he’s all but jackknifing off the bed as he spurts wave after wave of come across his chest and abdomen, John swearing quietly as he quickly employs his forearms to press Sherlock’s legs down in an attempt to prevent him from unseating John’s fingers and the vibrator entirely as he loses himself in the throes of pleasure.

Sherlock has no idea how long it is before his brain comes back online, but it’s with a profound sense of satisfaction that he notes his hands are still held resolutely in place by his head, just as John had ordered; at least he hadn’t broken a command and lost control entirely. John is still hovering over him, his expression determined as he continues to hold the vibrator in place while running his other hand up and down Sherlock’s side in a gentling motion.

“There we are, sweetheart, so good, so good. You must feel so much better now, hmm?”

Sherlock blinks dopily up at him and attempts to utter a, “Yes, John,” but it comes out so mumbled that John laughs, and a warm spark ignites in Sherlock’s belly.

“Alright, love. Take a moment, get your breath back. I want you hard again before I fuck you, but I’m in no rush, alright? Take your time.”

Sherlock nods and closes his eyes gratefully. The vibrator is the best way they’ve found to induce a second orgasm from Sherlock in a relatively short time frame, but it seems that John isn’t going to force it out of him; he’s allowing Sherlock to enjoy his refractory period before they move on.

He drifts, drunk on the post-coital high, calm and content under John’s competent command. 

He’s not sure how much time has passed, but when he comes back to himself, he notes the stirrings of arousal pooling deep in his abdomen once more. He takes a few measured breaths; long, steady pulls through his nose, the rush of oxygen to his muscles relaxing and recharging him all at once. He feels his cock twitching back to life.

“Mmmm, beautiful.” Sherlock blinks his eyes open to see John gazing down at him beatifically. He’s kept the vibrator at its lowest setting and is pressing it gently against Sherlock’s prostate, not enough to induce the urge to come, but enough to get the message across to his cock to get back in the game. John gently brings up his free hand to stroke Sherlock’s shaft.

Sherlock focuses on keeping his hands locked in place by his head and keeping his muscles relaxed and pliant. He wants -- _needs_ \-- John to fuck him, and to get what he wants, he must be _good._

Finally, John withdraws the vibrator and gives Sherlock’s hardened length a final stroke, twisting his wrist at the end just the way he knows Sherlock likes. Sherlock swallows down a yelp, and John gives him a grin.

“Alright, love. Let’s see here.” He presses two fingers into Sherlock’s hole, and Sherlock notes with delight that they sink in without resistance. “Oh, beautiful. Much better.” John scissors them experimentally before pulling them out with a curt nod.

At long last, he kneels up between Sherlock’s spread legs and unfastens his own trousers, pushing them down to mid-thigh along with his pants. His cock springs free, flushed and throbbing, and Sherlock tips his pelvis back and lets out a pathetic whine.

“Hold on now, love. Going to give you what you want, but first, promise me you’ll stop me if it hurts.”

Sherlock nods solemnly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Dear God, how much more consent could he possibly give at this point, aside from putting up a blinking neon sign that read, _YES PLEASE?_ Or perhaps a billboard? He makes a mental note to look into renting one near the flat as a late Christmas gift. Or maybe a bus ad?

But he keeps himself in check and musters up a demure, “Yes, John.”

“Beautiful. Hush, now.”

And with that, John throws his tie over his shoulder (Sherlock has to bite his lip to keep from giggling-- the gesture is so utterly and completely _John_ he can barely stand it), braces himself on one arm beside Sherlock’s head, and uses his other hand to guide his cock inside.

They let out a simultaneous hiss of surprise. Despite John’s fastidious prep work, his cock feels unfathomably _enormous_ in the tightness of Sherlock’s channel. Sherlock can’t remember ever feeling this tight before - including, as John mentioned, the night he lost his virginity. He arches his back helplessly and twists his hands in the sheets, struggling for purchase, while above him, John is heaving in slow, deliberate breaths, eyes clamped resolutely shut. 

Eventually, Sherlock can feel his muscles relax fractionally, and John sinks slightly deeper inside, prompting a garbled shout from Sherlock as the uncomfortable stretching feeling rears up yet again.

John seems to summon all his willpower to wrench his eyes open. He’s shaking slightly, Sherlock notes, and his cheeks look redder than normal.

“Sherlock? You alright?” John’s voice is high and tight. He’s doing his damndest to act casual, but Sherlock can tell by the way his shoulders are flexing that he’s struggling.

“I… um.” Sherlock takes another deep breath and attempts to will his muscles to relax. He twists the sheets in his hands as he desperately searches John’s eyes, willing him to understand what he’s trying to say.

“Sweetheart, I… Christ, this feels… you feel so good, but… you’re so tight. So tight. Am I hurting you?”

Sherlock attempts to take stock of the situation. The short answer is: no, not really. He’s not in pain, per se. He’s not exactly _comfortable;_ his passage feels clenched vice-tight around John’s unrelenting length, but there’s no burning or stinging sensation that would suggest any signs of tearing. 

And once he processes this fact-- that there seems to be no imminent danger of physical damage-- the discomfort takes on a different tone entirely. It’s the _good_ kind of discomfort, the kind that he experiences when he and John have particularly violent sex, the kind that makes him feel powerless and claimed and helpless, lighting up the whatever crossed synapses in his upside-down brain make him like this sort of thing.

He gasps like a man surfacing from underwater, and John’s expression goes from hesitant to concerned. Sherlock does his best to respond as quickly as possible.

“No, not pain, no, I’m fine, I’m fine, this is… nnnngh, John, this is… _good._ So good. Please.” He feels tears spring to his eyes, unexpected yet not wholly unwelcome, and he prays John will understand.

John lowers himself to press a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “Alright, love. If this is what you want.”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes.”

And with that, John begins to move inside him in earnest.

It’s… unlike any of their encounters before. Sherlock’s not sure what has made his body so tense tonight as opposed to any other time, but it makes every thrust so _intense_ Sherlock feels like John is splitting him open. He struggles to maintain his vow of silence as John rides him, John’s eyes boring into his own as they gasp their pleasure into the quiet of the room around them.

Eventually his body begins to give way to the intrusion and John picks up the pace accordingly, letting out a satisfied grunt as he reaches forward to grab the headboard for leverage. For his part, Sherlock focuses on keeping his fingers twisted in the sheets, hands resolutely at their station beside his head, just as John has asked of him. He can feel the hot coiling in his gut as his body begins to prepare for another release.

John can tell that Sherlock is getting close. He slows his rhythm until he’s just grinding gently into him, peering down at Sherlock’s face as he speaks. “You with me, love?”

“Mmmhmmm.” Sherlock feels warm and gooey and lovely.

“Are you close?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Do you… still want to try what we talked about?” John’s eyes are dark and serious, and Sherlock knows John needs him to be mentally present for this. He’d insisted upon it in their earlier negotiations.

He speaks clearly, enunciating his words with measured precision. “Yes, John.”

John nods gravely. “Alright. Remember the rules: I’m the medical professional here, so I’ll be deciding when you’ve had enough. I’ll be counting the duration so you don’t have to. If you want to stop before I do, snap your fingers twice. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“We can pause and take a break if you want one. Pausing doesn’t mean we end the session unless you want to. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“You’re allowed to come whenever you want. I’m giving you permission. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“You can move your hands now, put them wherever you want, just no touching yourself unless I tell you to.”

“Yes, John.”

“And last: If I say we’re done, we’re done. No whining, no complaining, if you haven’t come yet, I’ll make sure you do, but _not one word of protest_ when I say we’re finished. Understood?”

“Yes, John.”

“Good.” And with that, John’s eyes glaze over, hardening into cold, calculating orbs, devoid of the warmth and compassion that had filled them moments ago. The expression on his face has turned dispassionate, firm and unrelenting. Sherlock shivers and briefly wonders if perhaps, for the first time ever, he may have bitten off more than he can chew.

But before he can second-guess himself, John’s hand is wrapping around his throat and pressing down. He struggles for a moment, heaving in a desperate last gasp, but then John squeezes tighter. His airflow cuts off entirely.

And that’s when John begins to fuck him.

Every nerve in Sherlock’s body kicks instantly into hyperdrive. Every animal instinct within him is screaming out warning signs; he’s in danger, he can’t _breathe,_ surely he must be _dying,_ he needs to struggle, to fight--

But all he can muster are a few limp thrashes, which barely seem to register to John as he pummels relentlessly into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s hands fly automatically to John’s biceps and he pushes up and away with what little strength he can muster, but there’s no doubt that John has summarily claimed the upper hand; he’s got Sherlock held down by the throat, he’s impaling him with such force that Sherlock can’t even bring his legs together enough to kick back in an attempt to unseat him, and he’s gripping the headboard with his free hand to give himself extra leverage. Sherlock’s body has nowhere to go. There is no escape.

Sherlock’s vision begins to dim.

Then just as quickly as it had started, the pressure on his throat is gone, and he’s heaving in wet, shuddering breaths. John is still fucking him in earnest, towering over him, forming a cage between his body and the headboard, his eyes still dark and unmerciful, but for a moment, Sherlock can _breathe._ A wave of relief surges through him.

But he’s taken no more than two deep breaths when the pressure returns, John choking him relentlessly once more. Sherlock struggles against his hand despite his every intention of going lax, willing his transport to surrender. 

Unfortunately, his transport has other ideas. The return of imminent danger sends a pulse of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and he plants his feet on the bed bed and bucks his pelvis as best he can, his hands flying up to rake his nails down John’s flexing back.

None of it is any use. John’s still fully-dressed in his suit, so if he registers Sherlock’s pathetic attempt to scratch up his back, he doesn’t show it. And if anything, Sherlock’s bucking simply allows John’s cock to sink in even deeper, pinning him more brutally in place. Sherlock thrashes and stills, and he can see the delight of victory flash across John’s face. John bares his teeth and grins down in triumph, snapping his hips even faster.

The world begins to go fuzzy.

The pressure on his throat disappears, and he can breathe again. John’s hand is still there, resting ever so lightly on his neck, but the threat of suffocation is once again momentarily absolved. Sherlock gulps down air as quickly as he can, knowing for a fact that John will give him no more than a moment’s respite.

And he’s right. As soon as his vision clears and he’s able to process the frankly insane adrenaline rush that this is inducing, John’s hand clamps down again, and the world narrows to the hot, trapped feeling welling up in his lungs.

And the new, consuming sensation in his cock.

Sherlock knows the science behind the appeal of breathplay. He understands the biology of how dopamine and oxytocin and endorphins produced during sex intermingle with adrenaline and cortisol and glucose produced by fear, creating a potent cocktail of arousal that some find irresistable. And he supposes, given his history of experimentation with various substances, the fact that he finds it all undeniably erotic shouldn’t exactly come as a surprise.

And yet, it does. At least, the level to which he experiences it is surprising, because it’s an all-encompassing, all-consuming sort of arousal the likes of which he’s never experienced before.

Within moments, he’s on the brink of coming. He feels hot and sensitive and tight all over, as though every cell in his body has been somehow miraculously transformed into an erogenous zone as a result of oxygen deprivation. He’s dimly registering John’s form above him, his brow furrowed in concentration, his face serious as he devotes himself single-mindedly to giving Sherlock what he needs.

Just like he always does.

Sherlock feels his balls pull up tight, and he begins to bow his back as his orgasm pushes its way to the forefront of his consciousness. 

At that very moment, John releases his grip on the headboard, and resolutely covers Sherlock’s mouth and nose with his hand, blocking his last vestige of hope for relief. His eyes meet Sherlock’s, and Sherlock stares back, unwavering and certain. This is what he wants. To be completely, utterly helpless, totally at John’s mercy.

He reaches up to grab John’s wrist where he’s holding his hand across Sherlock’s mouth. For a moment, John hesitates, as though worried that Sherlock will push it away. But instead, Sherlock holds it firmly in place, and nods.

And comes.

For the first few moments of Sherlock’s orgasm, John continues to deprive him of oxygen, and Sherlock’s body shakes and shudders as it struggles to find release amidst the denial.

And then John lets go of his face and throat simultaneously, and oxygen is rushing through his body, flooding his brain and rejuvenating his cells and he’s coming and coming and _coming_ in silent, wordless ecstasy, the head rush and the erotic release intertwining into a tangled, consuming plateau of pleasure that stretches on forever into every horizon.

He’s not sure when or how his orgasm finally stops. All he knows is that when his brain flickers back online, John is still on top of him, his face buried in Sherlock’s neck, his breath hot and wet against the tender flesh there. John’s thrusts are deep and fast; he’s close, and Sherlock spreads his legs as wide as he can to allow John the deepest angle of penetration. John moans lightly and then he’s there, the familiar warmth of his release filling Sherlock, claiming him, owning him like no other man ever had before John, and no man ever will after him.

Sherlock closes his eyes in ecstasy, and lets himself _be._

John eventually pulls himself back onto his forearms and whimpers his way through a few final, feeble thrusts, pushing everything he can into Sherlock’s eager channel. Sherlock knows that normally John would just collapse onto him afterwards, but tonight John’s still wearing his suit, and he at least has the presence of mind to avoid Sherlock’s come-streaked torso; he rolls off of Sherlock onto his back, the departure of his cock leaving Sherlock feeling chilled and bereft in the cool air of the bedroom. Sherlock lets out a pathetic whine at the loss, and shivers at the sensation of John’s come leaking from his open hole. He feels utterly debauched.

They lay side by side, breathing into the darkness, the moonlight shimmering through the window, the serene stillness juxtaposed with the intensity of what they’ve just experienced.

Strangely, Sherlock can hear the distant sound of music and chatter, as if emanating from another universe. Christ, what time was it? He musters every ounce of remaining strength to turn his head to check the clock on the bedside table.

11:02.

He nearly giggles. It was only 11:02? He knew he and John had left the party early, but that was… unexpected. It’s surreal to think that downstairs, the others were still mixing and mingling and having a proper stuffy good time, and he and John were upstairs doing… well, this.

Next to him, John shifts and gets to his feet with a groan. He turns to hover over Sherlock, and pushes his sweat-soaked curls back from his brow.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

“Mmm, yes, John.” Sherlock feels so relaxed he could fall asleep here and now.

“Alright. I’m going to go run a bath for us. Do you want to stay here for a bit?”

He knows that following a Level 3 session, John will give him some fairly intensive aftercare; it’s part of their agreement. But John also knows that Sherlock enjoys basking in his defilment for awhile following a session, so he always gives him the opportunity to indulge.

“Yes, John.”

“Alright. Shout if you need me.”

And with that, John is gone. Moments later, Sherlock hears the sound of the pipes rattling to life in the adjacent en suite bathroom.

But for now, he lets himself indulge in the drift. He feels _marvelous;_ sore and wrung-out and filthy, coated in his own come and leaking John’s, his muscles spent and his lungs burning from the deprivation they endured. It is perfection.

All too soon, John is back at his side. Sherlock notes with mild disappointment that he’s removed his suit and swapped it out for a robe, and he’s holding a warm, wet flannel.

“Alright, love. Hold still now, going to clean you up a bit.” He swipes the flannel through the streaks of come on Sherlock’s groin and abdomen, then dabs gently at his tender cock as Sherlock hisses from the oversensitivity.

“Good, sweetheart. Need to check you over now. Will you spread your legs for me?” Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh and averts his eyes as he complies, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. He knows that John loves this part, he knows that John _delights_ in seeing the evidence of his release leaking from this most intimate of places, but following such an intense rogering, Sherlock usually feels a bit shy about his debauched state. 

Fortunately, John has no such qualms. “Oh, lovely. Oh, that’s beautiful, sweetheart. Hold still for me, I’m going to touch you just to make sure everything’s alright, yeah?” Sherlock nods, tears suddenly springing to his eyes. This part is important, not just for John’s enjoyment but also to ensure that everything is medically fine and that there’s been no tearing, but even so, it’s almost cloyingly intimate in the aftermath of what he’s experienced.

John’s finger is gentle as it traces his rim, then presses softly inside, exploring the slick give of his passage thoroughly. Then John withdraws his finger and checks it before beaming down at Sherlock.

“All done, sweetheart. We’re all good. I’ve got a bath ready for us, come on now.” He gently coaxes an unsteady Sherlock to his feet, the world spinning slightly after being horizontal for so long.

Everything after that is misty and surreal. He remembers reclining against John in the decadently hot water of the claw-foot bathtub, delighting in the fact that John had elected to use one of the (admittedly rather prissy) bottles of bubble bath provided for guests. Though he misses the soothing smell of the sandalwood soap they use after their sessions at home, the lavender bubble bath is almost as good, and he’s hard-pressed to find complaint when he has John’s muscular arms wrapped around his chest and John’s thick, solid thighs bracketing him. Though he supposes it should make him feel weak and helpless, instead Sherlock feels safe and kept and warm.

He doesn’t really remember how they get from the bathtub to the bed, but he does vaguely register John rubbing the arnica cream he brought from home all over Sherlock bruised arms, legs, and back, murmuring something about day four of bruising being the worst (Sherlock had conclusively stopped trying to pay attention at that point). The memories of their session from a few days ago feel distant and faded compared to the blazing intensity of what has happened tonight, and he feels almost startled as he stares down at his bruise-mottled forearms and wrists.

And then the pillows are back, and the duvet, and John is pulling Sherlock close and pressing kisses into his hair, murmuring saccharine words of love and fidelity and praise, but Sherlock doesn’t have the wherewithal to respond. 

He simply lets John hold him, have him, keep him, for as long as he will.

And it’s finally enough.


	6. Chapter 6

John wakes with a start, breath short and mind racing.

He’s not quite sure what woke him initially. It hadn’t been a nightmare - those had been few and far between these days. But the moment he startles awake, his body tenses as his brain struggles to quantify his surroundings.

This happens sometimes, when he sleeps in an unfamiliar place. In the few fleeting seconds between sleep and full-blown consciousness, his mind, desperate to categorise the possibility of an impending threat, flips frantically through a jarring slide show of possible scenarios: On his cot in Afghanistan during his Army days, in his old bedroom upstairs at 221B, in the blank white void of a flat he’d lived in during those dark days following Sherlock’s passing, in the cozy bedroom of the Watford terraced house he’d shared with Mary that always felt more like a home than anything else he’d ever known before. 

It’s a dizzying, disorientating trip down memory lane, and John despises it every time it happens.

He registers the ornate canopy above him (oppressive and claustrophobic, in his opinion - perhaps that’s what had sparked the initial panic to begin with), then blinks blearily into the darkness until he can make out the other shapes in the room: The heavy wardrobe on the opposing wall, the Regency-era desk in the corner. And the dark warm lump of a form beside him... Mary?

No.

No, not Mary. He’s not in Watford. Their home in Watford is gone. Mary is dead, and has been for a while.

John aches.

He knows it’s alright to miss her. He _knows_ that. No matter how messy things had gotten between them in the end, he had still loved her. There was no doubt in his mind that he would have loved her until his dying breath.

But she’d beat him to that punch, too.

He lets out a wet huff in the darkness.

Because no matter how many times he tells himself it’s alright to miss her (and no matter how many times his therapist echoes that sentiment, and no matter how many times Sherlock places a steadying his hand on John’s shoulder on days when John’s been thinking about Mary too much, as if he somehow just _knows_ what John’s feeling), John hates missing her.

And not just because it hurts.

Because it feels ungrateful, too.

Because the form beside him in bed right now isn’t Mary. It’s Sherlock, the man he’d loved even before Mary, the man he’d loved through death and separation and the impossible reconciliation thereafter. And somehow, by the grace of God or fate or pure coincidence (but really, could the universe be so lazy?), he’s been allowed a second chance. 

And they’ve built a life together; _this_ life, this beautiful, complicated mess of a thing that’s plopped him here in this room in the early hours of a new Christmas morning, quiet and peaceful and brimming with promise. Never in a million years could John have imagined himself here.

And yet, by some miracle, he is.

He rolls onto his side and curls around Sherlock’s slumbering form, burying his face in the spot at the nape of his neck where his ringlets are the most pronounced. He inhales deeply, breathing in Sherlock’s familiar scent: eucalyptus shampoo, bergamot aftershave, and the light musk of sex that hadn’t quite rinsed off completely in last night’s bath, combined with something deep and sensual and smoky that is so unquantifiably _Sherlock_ that it saturates all his senses with a warm sensation of _home._

There.

That’s better.

John tries to go back to sleep, but it proves impossible.

Instead, he frets.

John always used to be a worrier. Growing up, his mum and Harry even gently chided him for it, and in med school his some of his friends dubbed him “Worrywart Watson,” since he was always spinning out the worst-case scenario in his mind, despite the fact it had little grounding in reality. 

In all honesty, it was one of the reasons he’d enlisted; he needed a sense of perspective, he’d reasoned. Perhaps a view of the bigger picture would break his habit of agonising over the smallest minutiae, blaming himself for things far beyond his control.

And in a way, joining the service had done exactly that. After skating along the razor-sharp edge between life and death, somehow paying rent or misdiagnosing a cold or maintaining the endlessly fragile peace between his parents and Harry seemed infinitely less dire.

But lately, the anxiety has been coming back again, and John can’t figure out why.

He worries about money.

It’s not that he and Sherlock are short on it; between Sherlock’s private clients, John’s part-time work at the clinic, and Sherlock’s generous trust fund, there’s never a question of whether they’ll have money for rent or food or the seemingly endless list of supplies required to raise a child.

But John hates that they’re partially dependent on Sherlock’s trust fund.

He _hates_ it.

Most of it’s to do with his working-class upbringing, that much he knows. If he’d’ve told his 17-year-old self that someday he’d rely on some blueblood’s inheritance to cover his rent, well, 17-year-old John Watson would have decked him and told him to sod off. Self-sufficiency had always been his greatest aspiration at that age, and he had a great deal of pride wrapped up in that ambition.

And John knows they don’t _need_ it. If they wanted to, Sherlock could take on more private clients and cut back on his service at the Yard, and John could go back to working full-time at the surgery. But as it stands now, it’s just so much _better_ for John to be home with Rosie most of the time, and Sherlock is so much more _fulfilled_ working at the Yard than he is taking on freelance cases for clients willing to fork over four-figure sums for private consultations.

Greg had offered to make John and Sherlock’s position at the Yard permanent and to get them on the payroll. He and John had been out for a few pints and the lager had admittedly loosened John’s tongue, and he’d somehow let it slip how much he despised relying on Sherlock’s family dynasty for income. And Greg had offered an alternative.

But it would have been too much. They’d have had to go through background checks and official vetting, and while John’s fairly certain they’d have taken him on with his military pedigree, there’s no way Sherlock would get the green light, with his colourful history of addiction, rehabilitation, and flagrant disregard for protocol and procedure. And there’s no way John would have put him through that kind of rejection. So John had declined Greg’s generous offer.

And most of the time, John just pushes it to the back of his mind. But incidents like the one last night remind him of the fact that their family’s wellbeing is intrinsically tied to Mycroft’s good graces, and he finds that fact unsettling.

And of course, John frets about Rosie.

Not that there’s anything worth fretting about; by all accounts, Rosie was a happy, healthy, well-adjusted child, on-track with her milestones (a standard which Sherlock is _constantly_ reminding John is a completely arbitrary societally-enforced social construct) and full of wonder and curiosity. It is a marvel beyond measure to watch her grow and learn, and still… John worries.

John worries about his schedule; his work with Sherlock was endlessly unpredictable, and while it was currently easy enough to simply call Mrs. Hudson or Molly if they needed last-minute support, how would Rosie feel about her parents running off at all hours once she grew old enough to notice their less-than-traditional routine?

And speaking of less-than-traditional, how would Rosie feel about being raised by two fathers? John tries to reassure himself constantly that people do it all the time, but still, he feels completely beyond his depth in all of this.

He knows he’s doing everything right. He’s seeing a therapist, and Dr. Richards constantly reminds him to take it one day at a time. He reminds himself that years of repression and whatever else he’s carrying with him can’t be unpacked in a few short months of treatment, and no one’s expecting him to be perfect, or to somehow overnight know exactly how to make this all work. And thankfully, Sherlock is endlessly understanding.

Sherlock.

God, John frets about Sherlock.

And not because Sherlock’s not okay. John frets because he seems to be, and then something will happen that leaves John feeling shaken and unbalanced and completely lost.

Sherlock’s Dark Moods are few and far between these days. He’s shown no signs of Danger Nights, and even when he’s in a snit, he rarely devolves into the childish tantrums that once consumed him; John strongly suspects that having an _actual_ child to care for has thrown some perspective on Sherlock’s more self-indulgent tendencies.

But then.

A few weeks ago, John had been cooking dinner while Sherlock patiently coaxed Rosie into eating hers, and Rosie was making her happy dinner-babble chatter, when something struck John for the first time.

“Sock!” Rosie’s voice was full of frustration.

“I know, I know, your spoon’s on the floor again. Here, try again, yes, just like that…”

John turned to see Sherlock helping Rosie grasp the handle, a gentle smile on his face.

“Sherlock?” John ventured.

“Hm?” Sherlock glanced up, and Rosie took the opportunity of his distraction to smear squash across his cheek with her spoon.

“Do you… Do you want Rosie to call you something else?”

Sherlock had blinked at him and then shrugged, grabbing a napkin to mop the squash off his face. “I mean, eventually I do hope she’ll be able to struggle through both syllables, but for now, I suppose _‘Sock’_ is close enough.”

“No, I mean… do you want her to call you… um, something besides your name?”

Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion. “What?”

“Like, um… Papa, or Father? I mean, she calls me ‘Adda,’ which I assume will get to ‘Dada’ and then ‘Dad’ and the like, but what about you?”

Sherlock’s face had remained passive. “‘Sherlock’ is fine.”

And he’d returned his attention to Rosie and her spoon, while John stood at the stove feeling like he’d been punched in the stomach.

He’s not sure why he reacted so strongly to Sherlock’s apathy on the matter, but that night, he’d found himself tossing and turning, unable to convince his brain to stop dwelling on it.

Because that was the first time he’d ever really thought about what Rosie was to Sherlock. In the aftermath of Mary’s passing and the gradual rekindling of John’s sexual relationship with Sherlock, everything had felt almost surreally natural, an effortless progression, inevitable and sure. When Sherlock asked John to move back in to 221B, John hadn’t hesitated, and the two of them had decorated Rosie’s nursery upstairs together, a mutually unspoken promise of a shared future.

And Sherlock had taken on his share of the parenting with unprecedented grace and enthusiasm. He partook in feedings, playtime, bedtime, he changed her nappies and took her to daycare and brought her to watch John’s rugby matches, just like any other partner would. 

So John had assumed that Sherlock felt like Rosie’s father.

But it seemed that wasn’t quite the case.

And John realised he’d never really thought about what that all _meant:_ That despite Sherlock’s unwavering support, parenthood was something that Sherlock had never actually consented to. It wasn’t like what John had gotten to have with Mary; an intimate, deep conversation about their long-term goals and what they envisioned their future family to be. Sherlock had merely been haplessly roped into all of this; if he wanted John, Rosie was part of the package.

Putting that perspective on it troubled John deeply.

But he still hadn’t figured out how to talk about it. He hadn’t told his therapist about how he’d been feeling. Instead, he’d concocted a hair-brained scheme about getting Sherlock to reconcile with his own family, in the hopes that making Rosie a part of it would make them all feel more connected.

And Christ, it had all very nearly blown up in his face last night.

John knows it’s alright to make mistakes, miscalculations. And perhaps bringing Sherlock and Rosie here had been just that: a miscalculation.

By the time John emerges from his anxiety-riddled reverie, the brilliant blue glow of the moonlight has faded, replaced by the dim grey of an early dawn. Beside him, Sherlock shifts and snuffles, his form relaxed and pliant in John’s arms. John pulls him closer to press a kiss against the back of his neck.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock reacts; it seems he was transitioning into wakefulness as well, and whether intentionally or subconsciously, his body seems _very_ receptive to John’s presence. He stretches slightly, pressing his arse back against John’s groin enticingly, and John’s prick immediately takes interest in the proceedings, all thoughts of finances and family drama suddenly replaced by a low thrum of arousal.

Sherlock rolls his hips again and lets out a sleepy-sounding hum, pulling John’s arm tighter across his chest as he does so. John lets out a soft chuckle and begins to rub his hardening cock against Sherlock’s pert cheeks, the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms doing little to dull the sensation. Sherlock lets out a light gasp and arches his back as he lengthens his neck, and John’s lips are helplessly drawn to the pale expanse of skin on display before him.

They move like that for a while, just soft, slow, sleepy undulations, warm and quiet beneath the comfort of the duvet. John continues to lave gentle kisses against Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock continues to to move in tandem with him, twisting his fingers to tangle with John’s as their breathing quickens and their pulse escalates.

Once John is certain that Sherlock is fully awake (still sleepy and dazed, clearly, but also letting out low moans that offer little room for interpretation), John rolls him onto his stomach and strips him of his pajama bottoms. (Usually after a session John would have let them fall asleep nude, but that had seemed a bit… well, rude, considering they were guests in this house.) Grinning to himself, he shucks his own pajamas and moves to straddle Sherlock’s thighs, slotting his turgid cock between Sherlock’s milky cheeks. He leans over and presses a series of kisses across Sherlock’s shoulder blades, and Sherlock hums appreciatively. John begins to frot against Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock drowsily turns his head to the side and blinks up at John from the corner of his eye as John moves against him.

“Mmm. Morning, John.” Sherlock threads his fingers through John’s where they’re planted beside his head.

John giggles as he continues to thrust. “Morning, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs contentedly and nuzzles his face back into the pillow before murmuring something unintelligible.

John leans over to nibble at the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “What was that, love?”

Sherlock undulates his hips against the mattress, pressing his arse back into John’s cock before thrusting forward to provide himself with some friction, and he lets out a pleased-sounding hum. John echoes his sentiment and increases his pace.

Finally, Sherlock lifts his head and speaks again. “I said, you can fuck me again if you’d like. I’m not that sore from last night.”

“Mmmm.” John grins and lets his forehead rest at the base of Sherlock’s neck as he executes a series of increasingly frantic thrusts against his arse. “Tempting, but if you’re amenable, I’d rather like to come on you this morning. Your arse is looking a little too perfect and I think I ought to dirty it up. That alright?”

Sherlock snickers and burrows back into the pillow, muttering a barely-intelligible “Yes, John” as he locks their fingers togehter.

It doesn’t take much longer. All too soon, the intoxicating sensation of Sherlock’s warm body pliant beneath his, the scent of Sherlock’s residual post-sex musk, and the sight of his still-healing bruises is all too much for John. He humps Sherlock as long as he can before pulling away at the last possible second, Sherlock gasping at the loss of skin-on-skin contact as he continues to grind against the mattress, then John is jerking himself frantically as he grunts his way through an incredible climax, splashing streaks of come across Sherlock’s glorious buttocks. It’s truly a vision to behold.

John lets himself come down slowly, working himself over until every last drop of his release has been deposited on the porcelain-smooth globes in front of him. Even after he has nothing left, he sits back on his heels and gently fondles his softening cock as he takes in the pornographic tableau laid out before him, Sherlock squirming in anticipation as he impatiently waits for John to have looked his fill.

At long last, John is satisfied. He grabs the nearest pair of pajama bottoms and uses them to hastily wipe down Sherlock’s arse, then tosses them aside before hastily flipping Sherlock over and settling between his legs, Sherlock’s expression a gorgeous combination of shock and desire as he hungrily looks up, attempting to deduce John’s next move. John smirks, then leans over and swallows him to the root.

John gives him a beautifully decadent blow job, sloppy and lavish and just the way he knows Sherlock likes it best. Beneath him, Sherlock wriggles and squirms, biting down on his own fist to keep from crying out as the fingers of his free hand twist and tangle in John’s hair. His eyes are wild and frantic as they stare down to meet John’s, and John gives him a mischievous waggle of his eyebrows as he swallows heartily around Sherlock’s length.

And then John sees the telltale quiver across Sherlock’s abdomen that’s a sure indicator he’s about to come. John doubles down on his efforts, sucking as hard as he can while bringing a hand up to fondle and squeeze at Sherlock’s balls.

That does the trick. Sherlock gasps and his hands fly out to wrap themselves in the sheets and then he’s bowing up off the bed and coming in long, luscious spurts, chest heaving and eyes scrunched shut as John sucks and swallows for all he’s worth.

Finally, Sherlock is spent, and John musters up the strength to flop back down into bed next to him, throwing an arm across his chest and giving him a lust-drunk, post-coital grin, which Sherlock willingly returns.

They doze for a bit, but before too long, Sherlock grows restless, throwing off the blankets and sitting up before reaching for his (now come-stained) pajama bottoms. He wrinkles his nose as he assesses them.

“Well, I suppose we really must go home soon, all my sleepwear is dirty.”

John laughs. “Didn’t hear you complaining yesterday, or this morning for that matter.”

Sherlock smirks and then rolls his shoulders and neck before glancing down to admire his still-healing bruises. “Mmmm. We haven’t shagged this much in ages.”

“Chalk it up to the Christmas spirit.”

Sherlock shoots him a bemused glance as he rises to his feet and wanders over to deposit his soiled pajamas in the suitcase. “Oh, is that the true meaning of Christmas, then? Here I thought it was peace and love for all mankind or some other such nonsense.”

“No, I’m fairly certain it’s sex. I’m sure Dickens wrote about it at length.” 

Sherlock shakes his head in mock regret. “I _knew_ I shouldn’t have skipped that assignment in school.”

John reluctantly follows him out of bed, leaving the cozy warmth beneath the duvet to make his way over to his suitcase, rummaging around for his favourite Christmas jumper (which he _knows_ Sherlock finds endearing, despite his vocal complains about its garishness). They share a shower and then dress in silence, Sherlock nonchalantly donning John’s rather uncharacteristic red scarf to cover the finger-shaped bruises that have blossomed across his neck. John feels a confusing combination of shame and arousal as he watches Sherlock cover them, but Sherlock shoots him a reassuring smile, and they descend downstairs hand-in-hand.

Breakfast is a casual affair, trays of pastries and buckets of chilled champagne and carafes of coffee and tea laid out in the drawing room, where they find Rosie already at play with several of the other family children beneath the Christmas tree. Sherlock strides over and scoops her up, perching her on his hip and beaming down at her as she squeals and grabs his curls in delight. John feels a peculiar tightness in his chest watching them.

“Happy Christmas.” The sound of Mycroft’s monotone droning directly into his ear startles John, and he noticeably jumps. Mycroft smirks as he sidles up beside him, before handing John a cup of freshly-poured coffee. 

“Um, thanks?” John tentatively takes a sip and notes that it’s just the way he likes it - though he supposes with Mycroft, he shouldn’t be surprised.

The silence between them feels thick with tension. John has absolutely no idea what to say; as defensive as he’d been at the time, in the harsh light of day he’s more than a bit mortified by their confrontation the night before, and though he’d long suspected that Mycroft’s deductive capabilities may have clued him into the types of sexual activities he and Sherlock engaged in, actually having it out in the open was painfully awkward. He’s all but overwhelmed with the desire to melt unceremoniously into the parquet floor.

He forces himself instead to direct his attention onto Sherlock and Rosie. Sherlock his holding her up to the Christmas tree, pointing out the shiny baubles and murmuring something in Rosie’s ear that makes her giggle and squirm, drawing a smile to John’s face.

“Rosie seems to be enjoying herself.” Mycroft’s tone is light, conversational. John tries to match it, despite his obvious blush giving him away.

“She does.”

“She gets on with the other children well.”

“Um… yeah, yeah, it seems that way.” John’s face feels so hot he’s nearly feverish. Why couldn’t Mycroft just _avoid_ him after exposing the sordid details of his sex life, like any normal person?

“And Sherlock’s looking well this morning.”

John swallows. “He is.”

“And I trust you’ll ensure he stays that way?”

John’s taken aback by the forwardness of the question, and for the first time, he turns his head to meet Mycroft’s eyes. His gaze is level and imploring.

John steadies himself. “Yes. I swear it on my life.”

Mycroft gives a little nod and a curt smile, redirecting his gaze back towards Sherlock and Rosie. “Good. That’s settled, then.”

John blinks. “You… so you’ve decided to trust me, just like that?”

Mycroft shrugs.

John is still in disbelief. “Just… take me for my word?”

Mycroft sighs and shoots him a withering glance. “Well, that, and I’ve dosed your coffee with the strongest black-market truth serum government money can buy.”

John spits the sip he’s just taken back into his cup. “You _what?”_

Mycroft lets out an amused chortle, a fond light flickering in his eyes that John’s fairly certain he’s never seen before. “A joke, Doctor Watson. That was a joke.”

John blushes furiously, clearing his throat. “Oh. Right, of… of course.” 

And with that, Mycroft gives him a cheeky wink, then departs to assess the recently-produced tray of _pain au chocolat._

John is still attempting to recover from the shock of Mycroft making an honest-to-God _joke_ when Sherlock wanders over, still bouncing Rosie in his arms. “Everything alright over here?”

“Um, yeah, your brother was just being… nice.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow appraisingly. “Nice?”

John nods vigorously. “Yeah. It was weird.” They’re both still hovering in perplexed silence when the moment is broken by the encroachment of Sherlock’s aunt and uncle.

“And the Watsons! We trust you enjoyed the gala last night?” Lord Lyttelton’s face is already a bit red, and he holds a near-empty champagne flute clutched in his right hand.

“It was certainly… entertaining.” Sherlock’s uncharacteristically diplomatic response draws a giggle under John’s breath.

“Oh, I’m glad, dears,” Sherlock’s aunt titters. “And I noticed you boys getting along so well with Victor Trevor and his husband! It’s so fortunate there were some of your own kind around for you to socialise with.”

Sherlock nods, a look of forced solemnity on his face. “Of course. Always a great reassurance, really, to be with _our own kind.”_ John is trying so hard not to laugh that he’s shaking, but Sherlock’s expression remains resolutely innocent and sincere.

“Well, the Trevors have assured us they’ll be back in the country this spring, we really must have you out to the house then.”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock replies. John actually throws a little elbow at Sherlock for this; though he tolerates Victor and his husband well enough, Sherlock’s past with Victor still raises John’s hackles in jealousy. Despite the fact that Sherlock and Victor had never even had sex, knowing that Victor had used Sherlock as his own personal voyeur for a period of time struck John as extremely kinky and weirdly a little hot in a way that John’s not quite ready to dissect.

“Speaking of which,” Lord Lyttelton interjects, “We’ll be having the children out for the end of the summer holidays, as always. Rosie should be old enough to attend this year, I should think, don’t you?”

Sherlock nods as he casually shifts Rosie’s weight from one hip to the other. “I should think so.”

Sherlock’s aunt beams. “Oh, lovely, lovely. We’ll be looking forward to it, then.” And with polite nods, they take their leave.

John turns to Sherlock. “What’s this about the summer holidays?”

Sherlock seems nonchalant. “Every summer the Lytteltons host the family children for the last week in August. I attended every year in my childhood.”

John is flummoxed. “And you enjoyed it?”

Sherlock gives him a skeptical look. “Wallowing about the moors playing with sticks and dirt? Building treehouses and playing make-believe? Hide-and-Go-Seek and ghost hunting and card games? Of course not, I found it hateful, the lot of it.”

John’s brow furrows. “So why did you say Rosie would go?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Because Rosie… isn’t me. Perhaps she’ll like it. Perhaps she’ll like her family.”

The strange tightness in John’s chest returns in threefold. He struggles to form the next words in his mouth. “So you do… you do think of Rosie as family?”

Sherlock looks at John as though he’s grown a third head. “For Christ’s sake, John, I’m not raising her as a favour to a casual acquaintance. She’s not some stranger I’m letting bunk in my spare room.”

John bites his lip, but forces himself to press further. “So you think of her… as your daughter?”

Sherlock’s expression is one of utter confusion. “Of course I do. Should I… do you not want me to?”

John scrambles to overcorrect. “No, no, of _course_ I want you to, Sherlock, I’ve been trying to make that clear since the day we moved back in with you! I just meant, the other week, when I asked you what you wanted Rosie to call you, you said…” The words feel suddenly strangely childish in John’s mouth. “You said you wanted her to call you ‘Sherlock.’”

Sherlock’s eyebrow quirks, and he gives John a skeptical once-over. _“That’s_ what you deduced from my request for her to call me by my name? That I don’t think of her as family?”

“I, um, well…” John suddenly feels a bit embarrassed.

Luckily, Sherlock just rolls his eyes and heaves an exasperated sigh. “For God’s sake, I suppose that’s the reason I’m in charge of the deductions around here. Look, John, names of endearment among family members, they’re societal constructs that are essentially meaningless in terms of defining actual bonds. They’re words born of _sentiment,_ a way of placing the value of one certain human above the value of others, but they’re not proof of anything. The value of a human connection is through _experience,_ not a _label._ Rosie can call me _Sock_ or _Sherlock_ or _Papa_ or _Oy, You_ for all I care - It doesn’t change the fact that I’m raising her. Do you understand?”

John can’t really speak around the lump in his throat, but he does muster a watery nod.

Sherlock gives him a satisfied nod. “Good. Because Rosie and I are in desperate need of a chocolate croissant, and I see Mycroft’s already eyeing a second, which means time is of the essence.” And with that, he turns and makes his way off towards the food, still bouncing Rosie on his hip as he helps her pick out a pastry.

And so John is left feeling very foolish, indeed. Because sometimes he forgets that Sherlock isn’t great with emotions. Sometimes it’s hard to remember, in the rushing madness of their day-to-day-life, that Sherlock still struggles to express _sentiment_ and _compassion_ and _empathy._ But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.

So all of John’s worrying had been for nothing, then.

Typical. He issues a self-deprecating chuckle.

But at least it wasn’t all in vain. After all, they were _here,_ with Sherlock’s family, and everything had gone (relatively) smoothly, and it certainly seemed that Rosie could have a future with them if she so desired. 

And if she didn’t, well, Sherlock would be the first to understand.

Smiling to himself, John makes his way over to join his partner and his daughter in the glowing light of the Christmas tree.

*******

Six days later, John is staggering through the tail end of what he can fairly confidently say is the worst New Year’s Eve in history.

He’d promised his mother that he’d bring Rosie by for a visit, but Rosie had come down with a stomach bug and she’d had to stay at home with Sherlock. John had still made the voyage in an attempt to placate his mother, but she’d been bitterly disappointed by Rosie’s absence and seemed to take it all out on John for no reason whatsoever, leading to a very tense lunch followed by an even tenser visit to see John’s father in his assisted living facility. Harry had neglected to show up altogether, and John had arrived at the station to catch his train back to London exhausted and emotionally spent. 

But of _course_ there had been snow all day and the train was delayed and he ended up stopped on the tracks somewhere outside Brookwood for the better part of two hours. By the time he’d got back to the city, there were no taxis thanks to the worsening weather, the Tube was insufferably crowded, and he’d arrived back at the flat at precisely six minutes to midnight, considerably worse for the wear.

He trudges up the staircase, shaking off as much of the snow as he can, looking forward to a hot cuppa and a warm fire and a good night’s rest. He pushes open the door and toes off his soaking wet shoes, then makes his way into the kitchen.

Where Sherlock is standing at the kitchen sink, drying a pile of dishes, the smell of his infamous _ratatouille_ still hovering the air. John stops dead in his tracks.

“Oh my God, Sherlock, you _cooked? Ratatouille?_ And I missed it?” Sherlock hardly ever cooks, but when he does, it’s always exquisite. He’d made ratatouille a few weeks after John had moved in the first time, all those years ago, and it had been John’s favourite meal ever since.

Sherlock turns as he wipes his hands on a dish towel. “Don’t be so salty, John. I’ve put it in the fridge for tomorrow, it will be fine then.”

John strides across the kitchen and plants a kiss on Sherlock’s supple lips. “But still. You made dinner to surprise me? And I missed it?”

Sherlock shrugs and tosses the dish towel behind him. “Don’t be so sentimental, John. We can eat it tomorrow. Besides, at least you made it home in time for our New Year’s tradition.”

John shoots him a perplexed glance, but Sherlock just nonchalantly pulls a glass from the cupboard and fills it with whiskey before handing it to John. John stares at it, utterly lost, until Sherlock takes his hand. “Come on.”

He guides John to the sitting room, where a fire is cracking in the fireplace, and gestures for him to sit down. 

John compiles, but he still has no idea what the _hell_ Sherlock is talking about - they haven’t spent a New Year’s Eve together since before the Fall, and John doesn’t recall them having any particular _traditions--_

But then the sound of the church bells striking midnight echoes through the stillness of the wintery air outside. And Sherlock turns and reaches for his violin, then softly begins to play.

_May auld acquaintance be forgot  
And never brought to mind…_

John’s eyes unexpectedly fill with tears, but he manages to blink them back. Instead, he relaxes into his chair and raises his whiskey to his lips, allowing his eyes to drink in the vision of Sherlock, pale and beautiful in the firelight, smiling down at him.

And yes, things are still messy. He and Sherlock aren’t perfect, they lead complicated lives, and in many ways, they’re still figuring themselves out and struggling to discover how they work together.

But in moments like this, John remembers that he doesn’t have to worry after all.

He simply sits in the stillness, and listens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon! This final chapter from John serves as a bit of a precursor to a larger John-centric piece I’m working on for the spring. In the meantime, there will be a few porny one-offs to hold you over until then!
> 
> Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all. Thanks for reading and commenting! Always so lovely to hear from you:)

**Author's Note:**

> More soon! I'll be updating twice weekly through Christmas.
> 
> Leave questions! Leave comments! I love hearing from you.


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